THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


Thkkk  was  anothkr  Low  Cedar  Nearer  to  her. 

Near  to  Nature.  Page  i 


The   Works  of 

E  ^  P  ^  ROE 


NEAR  TO  NATURE'S  HEART 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

PETER   FENELON  COLLIER  &  SON 


MCM 


r  U 


CSOPVSIGHT,  1876^ 

S^  DODD,  MEAD,  &  COMPASR 


PREFACE, 


THE  autumn  winds  are  again  blowing,  and  the  even- 
ings are  growing  longer.  At  the  time  when  the  fires 
are  kindled  once  more  upon  the  hearth,  I  send  this  stoiy 
out  to  visit  those  whom  I  can  almost  hope  to  regard  zs 
friends.  If  it  meets  the  same  kind  welcome  and  lenient 
treatment  which  my  previous  works  have  received,  I  shall 
have  more  than  sufficient  reason  to  be  satisfied.  If,  in 
addition  to  being  a  guest  at  the  fireside,  it  becomes  an  in- 
centive to  the  patient  performance  of  duty  in  the  face  of  ail 
temptation,  I  shall  be  profoundly  thankful.  I  am  not  afraid 
to  inform  the  reader  that  these  books  are  written  with  the 
honest,  earnest  purpose  of  helping  him  to  do  right ;  and 
success,  in  this  respect,  is  the  best  reward  I  crave.  I  do 
not  claim  for  these  books  the  character  of  beautiful  works  of 
art.  Many  things  may  have  good  and  wholesome  uses  with- 
out exciting  the  world's  admiration.  A  man  who  cannot 
model  a  perfect  statue  may  yet  erect  a  lamp  post,  and  place 
thereon  a  light  which  shall  save  many  a  wayfarer  from  stum- 
bling. 

It  is  with  much  diffidence  and  doubt  that  I  have  ventured 
to  construct  my  story  in  a  past  age,  fearing  lest  I  should 
give  a  modem  coloring  to  ever}'thing.  But,  while  the  book 
is  not  designed  to  teach  history,  I  have  carefully  consulted 
good  authorities  in  regard  to  those  parts  which  are  histori* 
cal. 


M36-3722 


tV  PREFACE. 

Captain  Molly  has  her  recognized  place  in  the  Revolution, 
s!)ut  my  leading  characters  are  entirely  imaginary.  Still, 
I  hope  the  reader  may  not  find  them  such  pale  shadows  that 
their  joys,  sorrows,  and  temptations  will  appear  mere  sickly 
fancies,  but  rather  the  reflex  of  genuine  human  experiences. 
They  have  become  so  real  and  dear  to  me  that  I  part  with 
them  very  reluctantly, 

CORNWALL-ON-THE-HUDSON,  N,  Y. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHAPTER  11. 

CHAPTER  m. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

CHAPTER  V. 

CHAPTER  VI. 
CHAPTER  VII. 
CHAPTER  VIIL 
CHAPTER  IX. 


A  Child  of  Nature 
Vera  and  her  Home 

The  ICONOCLAST3 

For  Worse 

Washington's  Sermon 

A  Scene  at  Black  Sam's 

New  York  Under  Fire 

Larry  Meets  his  Fate 

Left  to  Nature's  Care 

CHAPTER  X. 
The  Robin  Hood  of  the  Highlands   . 

CHAPTER  XI. 
The  Mother  Still  Protects  her  Child 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Beacon  Fires    ..... 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

Liberty  Proclaimed  Among  the  Highlands 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Echoes  Along  the  Hudson 

CHAPTER  XV. 
Saville's  Night  Reconnoissance 

CHAPTER  XVL 
Dark  Days        ..... 

CHAPTER  XVIL 
"The  White  Witch  of  the  Highlands" 

CHAPTER  XVIII, 
"The  Black  Witch  of  the  Highlands" 

CHAPTER  XIX, 
▲  DiRCE  Ending  Joyously  .         . 


27 
34 

*4 
55 
6^ 
6S 
Si 

in 

\iZ 

£46 
ss6 
x6f 
178 
183 
igS 

394 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
SxULA  Hears  a  Veritable  Voice  .  . 

CHAPTER  XXL 
Camp  Fires  and  Subtler  Flames         .  . 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
The  Storming  of  the  Forts 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
The  Wife's  Quest  Among  the  Dead 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
Vera's  Search  Among  the  Dead 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
The  Woman  in  Vera  Awakes     .  .  , 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
Vera's  Only  Crime    .  .  .  .  . 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
Vera  must  Become  an  Atheist 

CHAPTER  XXVm. 
A  Hasty  Marriage    .         .  .  .  . 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
Seeming  Success         .... 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
A  Master  Mind  and  Will 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
CHAPTER  XXXII. 
CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
CHAPTER  XXXV. 
CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


The  Revelation 
Groping  her  Way 
Strong  Temptation 
A  Stranger's  Counsel 
The  Parting     . 
fiEEKiNG  Death 

Seeking  Life     ...... 

CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 
A  Mystery  Solved— Great  Changes  . 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
Explanations    ...... 

CHAPTER  XL. 
Husband  and  vVife    .  .  .  .  . 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

JTEDDF-n  WITH  HER  MOTHER'S  RING         .  . 


List  of  I/lustrations 


NEAR  TO  NATURES  HEART 

There  was  another  low  Cedar  nearer  to  her Frontispiece 

"The  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  ye,"    Larry  had  said 

A  Panic  seized    upon  the    Robber -- -— 

Barney  fell  dead    at   his  victim's  feet — 

"May  God  have   pity  on  us   both" «.,..... 


NEAR  TO  NATURE'S  HEART 


NEAR  TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 


CHAPTER    I. 


A    CHILD    OF    NATURE. 


THE  granite  mountains  that  form  the  historical  High- 
lands of  the  Hudson  have  changed  but  little  during 
the  past  century.  On  the  1 7th  of  June,  about  one  hundred 
years  ago,  a  day  inseparably  associated  in  American  memory 
with  Bunker  Hill,  and  the  practical  severance  of  the  cable  of 
love  and  loyalty  that  once  bound  the  colonies  to  the  mother 
country,  these  bold  hills  undoubtedly  appeared  much  as 
they  do  now.  In  the  swales  and  valleys,  the  timber,  un- 
touched as  yet  by  the  woodman's  axe,  was  heavier  than  the 
third  or  fourth  growth  of  our  day.  But  the  promontories 
overhanging  the  river  had  then,  as  now,  the  same  grand  and 
rugged  outlines  of  rock  and  precipice.  The  shrubbery,  and 
dwarf  trees,  that  catch  and  maintain  their  tenacious  hold  on 
every  crevice  and  fissure,  softened  but  litfle  the  frowning 
aspect  of  the  heights,  that,  like  grim  sentinels,  guard  the 
river. 

But  nature  in  her  harshest  moods  can  scarcely  resist  the 
blandishments  of  June  ;  even  as  the  sternest  features  relax 
under  the  caresses  of  youth  and  beauty.  On  this  warm  still 
day  of  early  summer,  when  over  the  city  of  Boston  the  wild- 
est storm  of  war  was  breaking,  the  spirit  of  peace  seemed 
supreme  even  in  that  rugged  gorge  into  which  the  Hudson 


2  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

passes  from  Newburgh  Bay,  and  a  luminous  haze  softened 
every  sharp  outline.  The  eastern  shore  was  aglow  with  the 
afternoon  sun,  like  a  glad  face  radiant  with  smiles.  The 
western  bank  with  its  deepening  shadows  was  like  a  happy 
face  passing  from  thought  into  revery,  which,  if  not  sad,  is 
at  least  tinged  with  melancholy. 

From  most  points  of  observation  there  were  no  evidences 
of  other  life  than  that  distinctively  belonging  to  the  wilder- 
ness. If  the  pressure  of  population  has  brought  so  few  in- 
habitants in  our  time,  there  was  still  less  inducement  then 
to  settle  where  scarcely  a  foot-hold  could  be  obtained  among 
the  crags.  Therefore  the  region  that  is  now  filling  up  with 
those  who  prefer  beautiful  scenery  to  the  richest  lowlands, 
was  one  of  the  wildest  solitudes  on  the  continent,  though 
amidst  rapidly  advancing  civilization,  north  as  well  as  south 
of  the  mountains. 

While  at  that  time  the  river  was  one  of  the  chief  highways 
of  the  people,  the  means  of  communication  between  the 
seaboard  and  a  vast  interior,  so  that  the  batteaux  of  voyagers 
and  passing  sails  were  common  enough,  still  the  precipitous 
shores  offered  slight  inducement  to  land,  and  the  skippers 
of  the  little  craft  were  glad  to  pass  hastily  through  this  for- 
bidding region  of  sudden  flaws  and  violent  tides,  to  the 
broad  expanse  of  Tappan  Zee,  where  the  twinkle  of  homa 
lights  and  the  curling  smoke  from  farm-house  and  hamlet 
in  the  distance  reminded  them  that  they  were  near  their  own 
kind. 

But  there  was  neither  boat  nor  sail  in  sight  on  the  memo- 
rable afternoon  upon  which  my  story  opens,  not  a  trace  of 
the  human  life  that  now  pulsates  through  this  great  artery  of 
the  land,  save  a  small  sail -boat  drifting  slowly  under  the 
shadow  of  Cro'nest.  The  faint  breeze  from  the  west  died 
away  as  the  sun  declined,  and  the  occupant  had  dropped 
the  sail  that  only  flapped  idly  against  the  mast.     The  tide 


A   CHILD  OF  I^ A  TURK  S 

was  still  setting  up  in  the  center  of  the  river,  but  had  turned 
close  in-shore.  Therefore,  the  young  man,  who  was  the 
sole  occupant  of  the  boat,  reclined  languidly  in  the  stern, 
with  his  hand  on  the  tiller,  and  drifted  slowly  with  the  cur- 
rent around  the  mimic  capes  and  along  the  slight  indenta- 
tions of  the  shore,  often  so  close  that  he  could  leap  upon  a 
jutting  rock. 

Though  the  almost  motionless  vessel  and  the  seemingly 
listless  occupant  were  in  keeping  with  the  sultr}'  hour,  dur- 
ing which  nature  appeared  in  a  dreamy  rever)-,  still  their 
presence  was  the  result  of  war,  A  nearer  view  of  the  young 
man  who  was  mechanically  steering,  proved  that  his  languid 
attitude  was  calculated  to  mislead.  A  frown  lowered  upon 
his  wide  brow,  and  his  large,  dark  eyes  were  full  of  trouble — 
now  emitting  gleams  of  anger,  and  again  moist  in  their  sym- 
pathy with  thoughts  that  must  have  been  very  sad  or  ver^'' 
bitter.  His  full,  flexible  mouth  was  at  times  tremulous  with 
feeling,  but  often  so  firmly  compressed  as  to  express  not  so 
much  resolve,  as  desperation.  In  contrast  to  nature's  peace, 
there  was  evidently  the  severest  conflict  in  this  man's  soul. 
In  his  deep  pre-occupation,  he  would  sometimes  permit  his 
boat  to  drift  almost  ashore  ;  then  his  impatient  and  power- 
ful grasp  upon  the  tiller  bespoke  a  fiery  spirit,  and  a  strongs 
prompt  hand  to  do  its  behests. 

But,  by  the  time  he  had  crossed  the  flats,  south  of 
**  Cro'nest, "  he  seemed  inclined  to  escape  from  his  painfa' 
revery,  and  take  some  interest  in  surrounding  scenes.  He 
looked  at  his  watch,  and  appeared  vexed  at  his  slow  progress. 
He  took  the  oars,  pulled  a  few  strokes,  then  cast  them  down 
again,  muttering, 

* '  After  all,  what  do  a  few  hours  signify  }  Besides,  I  am 
infinitely  happier  and  better  off  here  than  in  New  York  ;" 
and  he  threw  himself  back  again  in  his  old  listless  attitude. 

His  boat  was  now  gliding  around  that  remarkable  projec* 


4  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

tion  of  land  that  has  since  gained  a  world-wide  celebrity 
under  the  name  of  West  Point.  When  a  little  beyond  what 
is  now  known  as  the  old  Steamboat  Landing,  he  thought  he 
heard  a  woman's  voice.  He  listened  intently,  and  a  snatch 
of  wild  melody,  clear  and  sweet,  floated  to  him  through  the 
still  air.  He  was  much  surprised,  for  he  expected  to  find 
no  one  in  that  solitude,  much  less  a  woman  with  a  voice  as 
sweet  as  that  of  a  brown-thrush  that  was  giving  an  occasional 
prelude  to  its  evening  song  in  a  shady  nook  of  the  moun- 
tains. 

He  at  once  proposed  to  solve  the  mystery,  and  so  divert 
his  thoughts  from  a  subject  that  was  evidently  torture  to 
dwell  upon  ;  and  keeping  his  boat  close  to  the  land,  that  it 
might  be  hidden,  and  that  he  could  spring  ashore  the 
moment  he  wished,  he  pursued  his  way  with  a  pleasant 
change  in  a  face  naturally  frank  and  prepossessing. 

As  he  approached  the  extreme  point  v.'here  now  tlie  light- 
house stands,  the  notes  became  clear  and  distinct.  But  he 
could  distinguish  neither  air  nor  words.  Indeed,  at  his  dis- 
tance, the  melody  seemed  improvised,  capricious,  the  utter- 
ances of  a  voice  peculiarly  sweet  but  untrained. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  the  songstress  was  on  the 
south  side  of  the  rocky  point,  on  which  grew  clumps  of  low 
cedar.  Standing  with  an  oar  in  the  bow  of  his  boat,  and 
causing  it  to  touch  the  shore  so  gently  that  the  keel  did  not 
even  grate  upon  the  rock,  he  sprang  lightly  to  land,  and 
secured  his  vessel.  He  next  stole  crouchingly  up  behind  a 
low,  wide-spreading  cedar,  from  whence  he  could  see  over 
the  ridge. 

It  was  a  strange  and  unexpected  vision  that  greeted  him. 
He  naturally  supposed  that  some  woodman's  or  farmer's 
daughter  had  come  down  to  the  bank,  or  that  a  party  of 
pleasure  had  stopped  there  for  a  time.  But  he  saw  a  crea* 
ta»re  whom  he  could  in  no  way  account  for. 


A    CHILD  OF  NATURE.  5 

Reclining  with  her  back  toward  him  on  a  lUtle  grassy  plot 
just  above  a  rock  that  shelved  down  to  the  water,  was  a 
young  girl  dressed  in  harmony  with  her  sylvan  surroundings. 
Her  attire  was  as  simple  as  it  was  strange,  consisting  of  an 
embroidered  tunic  of  finely- dressed  fawn-skin,  reaching  a 
little  below  the  knee,  and  ending  in  a  blue  fringe.  Some 
lighter  fabric  was  worn  under  it  and  encased  the  arms.  The 
shapely  neck  and  throat  were  bare,  though  almost  hidden 
by  a  wealth  of  wavy,  golden  tresses  that  flowed  down  her 
shoulders.  Her  hat  appeared  to  have  been  constructed  out 
of  the  skin  of  the  snowy  heron,  with  its  beak  and  plumage 
preserved  intact,  and  dressed  into  the  jauntiest  style.  Leg- 
gings of  strong  buckskin,  that  formed  a  protection  against 
the  briars  and  roughness  of  the  forest,  were  clasped  around 
a  slender  ankle,  and  embroidered  moccasins  com.pleted  an 
attire  that  was  not  in  the  style  of  the  girl  of  the  period  even 
a  century  ago.  She  might  have  passed  for  an  Indian 
maiden,  were  it  not  for  the  snowy  whiteness  of  her  neck, 
where  the  sun  had  not  browned  it,  and  for  her  good  pro- 
nunciation of  English.  In  her  little  brown  hand  she  held  3 
fishing-rod,  but  she  had  ceased  to  watch  her  floral  float, 
which  was  the  bud  of  a  water-lily  tied  to  the  line.  Indeed, 
the  end  of  her  pole  dipped  idly  in  the  water,  while  she, 
forgetful  of  the  sport  or  toil,  whichever  it  might  be,  sang 
her  passing  feelings  and  fancies  as  unaffectedly  as  the  birds 
on  the  hills  around,  that  now  were  growing  tuneful  after  the 
heat  of  the  day. 

Thus  far,  our  hero,  whom  we  may  as  well  introduce 
at  once  as  Theron  Saville,  had  been  able  to  distinguish 
only  disjointed  words,  that  had  no  seeming  connec- 
tion ;  mere  musical  sparkles,  rising  from  the  depths  of  a 
glad,  innocent  heart  But  imagine  his  surprise  when  she 
commenced  singing  to  an  air  that  he  had  often  heard  in 
England : 


6  NEAR   TO  NA  TURK'S  HEART, 

"  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows." 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  sprang  up,  and  commenced  wind-" 
ing  the  line  upon  her  pole.  Then  Saville  saw  that,  though 
very  young  seemingly,  she  was  taller  and  more  fully  de- 
veloped than  he  had  supposed.  At  first  glance  she  had 
appeared  to  be  little  more  than  a  child,  but  as  she  stood 
erect,  he  saw  that  she  was  somewhat  above  medium  height 
and  straight  as  an  arrow. 

He  was  most  eager  to  see  her  face,  thinking  that  it  might 
help  to  solve  the  mystery,  but  she  perversely  kept  it  from 
him  as  she  leisurely  wound  up  her  line,  in  the  mean  time 
chattering  to  herself  in  a  voice  so  flexible  and  natural  that  it 
seemed  to  mirror  every  passing  thought.  Now,  in  mimic 
anger  she  cried,  "  Out  upon  you,  fishes,  great  and  small — 
whales,  leviathans,  and  minnows  !  '  Canst  thou  draw  out 
leviathan  with  a  hook }  Canst  thou  put  a  hook  into  his 
nose .? '  No,  I  can' t ;  nor  in  the  nose  of  a  single  perch, 
white  or  yellow.  Did  I  not  whisper  when  I  first  came, 
'  Come  home  with  me  to  supper  ?  Scaly,  unmannerly 
knaves,  out  upon  you  ;  I'll  none  of  you," 

Then,  with  instant  change  to  comic  pathos,  she  con- 
tinued, "  '  Alas,  'tis  true,  'tis  pity  ;  and  pity  'tis,  'tis  true.* 
r  11  none  of  you  — when  I  wanted  a  dozen. ' ' 

Suddenly,  with  a  motion  as  quick  as  a  bird  on  its  spray, 
she  turned,  and  appeared  to  look  directly  at  Saville.  He 
was  so  startled  that  he  almost  discovered  himself,  but  was 
reassured  by  noticing  that  she  had  not  seen  him,  but  was 
looking  over  his  sheltering  cedar  at  something  beyond,  with 
a  pouting  vexation,  that  he  learned  a  moment  later  was 
only  assumed.  He  now  saw  her  features,  but  while  they 
awakened  a  thrill  of  admiration,  they  gave  no  clue  to  her 
myster}'.  The  hue  of  perfect  health  glowed  upon  her  oval 
face,  while  her  eyes  were  like  violets  of  darkest  blue.     The 


A    CHILD   QF  NATURE  7 

mouth  %vas  full,  yet  firm,  and  unlike  Saville's,  which  was 
chiefly  expre^ive  of  sensibility  and  suggested  an  emotional 
nature. 

Altogether,  she  seemed  a  creature  that  might  ha^int  a 
painter's  or  a  poet's  fancy,  but  have  no  right  or  real  exist- 
ence in  this  matter-of-fact  world.  Saville  could  not  account 
for  her,  and  still  his  wonder  grew  when  she  exclaimed  in 
tones  as  mellow  as  the  notes  of  the  bird  she  addressed  : 

"  What  are  you  saying  there,  saucy  robin?  You're  so 
proud  of  your  scarlet  waistcoat,  you're  always  putting  your- 
self forward.  '  The  sun's  behind  the  mountain,  and  it's 
time  for  evening  songs,'  you  say.  Well,  I  can  see  that  as 
well  as  you.  Go  sing  to  your  little  brown  wife  on  her  nest, 
and  cease  your  '  mops  and  mowes  '  at  me. 

"  '  I  can  sing  in  sunshine, 
I  can  sing  in  shadov/. 
In  the  darkest  forest  glen, 
O'er  the  grassy  meadow, 
At  night,  by  day,  'tis  all  the  same. 
Song  is  praise  to  His  loved  name.'** 

Then  she  lifted  her  face  and  eyes  heavenward,  as  if  from 
an  impulse  of  grateful  devotion.  Her  white  throat  grew 
full,  as  in  slower  measure,  and  with  a  voice  that  seemed  to 
fill  the  balmy  June  evening  with  enchantment,  she  sang  as 
a  hymn  those  exquisite  words  from  Isaiah  : 

"  For  ye  shall  go  out  with  joy. 
And  be  led  forth  with  peace  ; 
The  mountains  and  the  hills 
Shall  break  forth  before  you  into  singing. 
And  all  the  trees  of  the  field  shall  clap  their  hands." 

Saville  was  in  a  maze  of  bewilderment  and  delight.  Wa4 
this  a  creature  of  earth  or  heaven }  A  fairj''  or  an  ideal 
Indian  maiden,  the  perfect  flower  of  sylvan  life .?  All  his 
classic  lore  flashed  upon  him.     Oreads  and  dryads,  n)rmph.'; 


8  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

of  the  mountain  and  forest  tripped  through  his  brain  to  no 
purpose.  She  seemed  to  him  as  much  a  being  of  the  imag- 
ination as  any  of  them,  but  was  so  tantalizingly  near  and 
real,  that  he  could  see  the  blood  come  and  go  in  her  face, 
the  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom,  the  changing  light  of  her 
eyes  ;  and  yet  he  feared  almost  to  breathe  lest  she  should 
vanish.  Moreover,  a  pure  English  accent,  and  familiarity 
with  Shakspeare  and  the  Bible,  savored  not  of  the  wigwam 
nor  of  Greek  mythology.  He  resolved  to  watch  her  till  she 
seemed  about  to  depart,  and  then  seek  to  intercept  her,  and 
by  questions  solve  the  enigma. 

The  girl  stood  quietly  for  a  moment  as  the  last  sweet 
notes  of  her  voice  were  repeating  themselves  in  faint  echoes 
from  the  hill-sides,  and  then  in  a  low  tone  murmured, 

"  How  can  I  be  lonely  when  God  makes  all  His  crea- 
tures my  playmates*?' ' 

In  the  quick  transition  that  seemed  one  of  her  character- 
istics, she  soon  snatched  up  her  fishing-rod,  exclaiming  : 

"  Old  Will  Shakspeare,  I  know  more  than  you."  And 
she  sang  again, 

"  *  I  know  a  bank '  where  the  strawberry  '  blows,' 
Where  the  red  ripe  strawberry  even  now  '  grows,' 
'  Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk  roses  and  with  eglantine  ;  * 
These  I  can  gather  long  before  the  night, 
And  carry  home  to  mother  '  with  dances  and  delight  * — 

with  dances  and  delight" — and  as  she  repeated  this  refrain, 
she  lifted  her  slight  pole  like  a  wand  over  her  head,  and 
commenced  tripping  on  the  little  grassy  plot  as  strange  and 
fantastic  a  measure  as  ever  wearied  Titania,  the  fairy  queen. 
There  was  another  low  cedar  nearer  to  her,  and  Saville 
determined  to  reach  this,  if  possible.  He  did  so,  unper- 
ceived,  and  for  a  moment  gazed  with  increasing  wonder  on 
her  strange  beauty.     Though  she  seemed  a  perfect  child  of 


A    CHILD   OF  NA  TURB,  9 

nature,  as  unconventional  as  a  fawn  in  its  gambols,  there 
was  not  a  trace  of  coarseness  or  vulo^arity  in  feature  or  action. 

Suddenly  the  girl  ceased  her  improvised  dance,  and 
looked  around  as  with  a  vague  consciousness  of  alarm.  It 
%vas  evident  she  had  not  seen  nor  heard  anything  distinctly, 
but  as  if  possessing  an  instinct  akin  to  that  of  other  wild 
creatures  of  the  forest,  she  felt  a  danger  she  could  not  see. 
Or,  perhaps,  it  was  the  influence  of  the  same  mysterious 
power  which  enables  us  in  a  crowded  hall  to  fix  our  eyes 
and  thoughts  on  one  far  removed,  and,  by  something  con - 
cerning  which  we  hide  our  ignorance  by  the  term  "  mag- 
netism," draw  their  eyes  and  thoughts  to  ourselves. 

From  her  quivering  nostrils  and  dilating  eyes  Saville  saw 
that  his  nymph  of  the  mountain,  wood,  or  water — the  em- 
bodied enigma  that  he  was  now  most  curious  to  solve — was 
on  the  eve  of  flight  ;  therefore,  cap  in  hand,  and  with  the 
suave  grace  of  one  familiar  with  the  salons  of  Paris,  he 
stepped  forth  from  his  concealment. 

But,  seemingly,  his  politeness  was  as  utterly  lost  on  the 
maiden  as  it  would  have  been  on  a  wild  fawn,  or  the  heron 
Vi'hose  plumage  mingled  with  her  flowing  hair  ;  for  like  an 
arrow  she  darted  by  him  up  the  steep  ascent,  with  a  motion 
so  swift,  so  seemingly  instantaneous,  that  he  stood  gazing 
after  her  as  helplessly  as  if  a  bird  had  taken  wing. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  gained  a  crag  far  above  him,  and 
there  paused  a  moment,  as  if  her  curiosity  mastered  her 
fears,  that  he  recovered  himself,  and  cursed  his  stupid 
slowness. 

But,  when  he  again  advanced  toward  her  and  essayed  to 
spgak,  she  sprang  from  her  perch,  and  was  lost  in  the  thick 
copse- wood  of  the  bank.  Only  her  light  hazel  fishing-rod, 
and  the  line  with  the  watei  Hly  bud,  remained  to  prove  that 
the  whole  scene  was  not  an  illusion,  a  piece  of  witchery  that 
comported  well  with  the  hour  and  the  romantic  region. 


lO  NEAR    TO  NATURE* S  HEART. 

Correctly  imagining  that  though  invisible  she  might  be 
watching  him,  he  took  the  flower  and  put  it  in  his  button- 
hole, leaving  the  pole  on  the  bank  ;  then,  taking  off  h5§ 
hat,  he  again  bowed  in  the  direction  whither  she  had  fled, 
with  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  which  pantomime  he  hoped 
contained  enough  simplicity  and  nature  to  serve  in  place  of 
the  words  she  would  not  stay  to  hear. 

He  then  pushed  his  boat  from  the  shore  (for  he  no  more 
thought  of  following  her  than  he  would  a  zephyr  that  had 
gone  fluttering  through  the  leaves),  and  permitted  it  to  drift 
down  with  the  tide  as  before. 

With  the  faint  hope  of  inducing  her  to  appear  again,  hs 
took  up  a  flute,  of  which  he  had  become  quite  a  master, 
and  which  he  usually  carried  with  him  on  his  solitary  ex- 
peditions, and  commenced  playing  the  air  to  which  she 
had  sung  the  words, 

"  I  know  a  bank " 

He  was  rewarded  by  seeing  first  the  plumage  of  the  snowy 
heron,  then  the  graceful  outline  of  the  maiden's  form  on  a 
projecting  rock  where  now  frowns  Battery  Knox.  He  again 
doffed  his  hat,  and  turned  the  prow  of  his  boat  in-shore,  at 
which  she  vanished. 

Believing  now  that  she  was  too  shy  to  be  won  as  an  ac- 
quaintance, or  resolute  in  her  purpose  to  shun  a  stranger, 
he  pursued  his  journey  with  many  wondering  surmises. 
But  partly  to  please  himself,  and  with  some  hope  of  pleasing 
her,  he  made  the  quiet  June  evening  so  resonant  with  music 
that  even  the  birds  seemed  to  pause  and  listen  to  the  un- 
wonted strains. 

Thus  he  kept  the  shores  echoing  and  re-echoing  till  his 
boat  was  gliding  under  a  precipivous  bluff,  where  it  would 
be  impossible  to  land.  Here  a  light  northern  breeze  came 
fluttering  down  the  river  with  its  innumerable  retinue  of 


A   CHILD   OF  NATURE.  1 1 

ripples,  and  Saville  threw  down  the  flute  and  hoisted  his 
sail.  As  he  glided  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  bluff  to  the 
center  of  the  river,  the  same  weird  and  beautiful  voice  re- 
sounded from  the  rocks  above  him,  with  a  sweetness  and 
fullness  that  filled  the  whole  region  and  hour  with  enchant- 
ment, 

"  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows." 

Then  he  saw  the  plumage  of  the  snowy  heron  waving  him 
a  farewell,  and  distinguished  the  half  concealed  form  of  the 
maiden.  The  northern  gale  tossed  her  unconfined  hair  for 
a  moment,  and  then  the  vision  vanished. 

The  wind  freshened,  and  soon  the  water  was  foaming 
about  the  bow  of  his  boat.  Taking  up  his  flute,  he  gave  as 
a  responsive  farewell  the  simple  melody  which  had  become 
a  kind  of  signal  between  them,  the  one  link  of  mutual 
knowledge,  the  gossamer  thread  that  might  draw  their  lives 
closer  together. 

The  maiden,  who  no  longer  needed  the  sheltering  foliage, 
but  was  concealed  by  the  deepening  twilight,  listened  till 
the  faintest  echoes  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  and  then, 
quite  as  bewildered  and  full  of  wonderment  as  the  hero  of 
our  story,  slowly  retraced  her  steps  toward  West  Point. 

Saville  gazed  lingeringly  and  regretfully  back  upon  the 
landscape  that  grew  more  picturesque  every  moment  in  the 
uncertain  light,  and  felt  that  he  was  leaving  a  fairy  land  for 
one  of  stern  and  bitter  realities. 


la  NEAR   TO  nature: S  HEART, 


CHAPTER    XL 

VERA    AND  HER    HOMH. 

WITH  slow  and  thoughtful  steps,  the  young  gir!  ptt?« 
sued  her  way,  finding  a  path  where,  to  another, 
there  would  have  been  only  a  tangled  forest,  growing  among 
steep  ridges  and  jagged  rocks.  But  the  freedom  and  easa 
with  which  she  picked  her  way  with  almost  noiseless  tread, 
might  have  deepened  the  impression  that  in  some  occult 
manner  she  was  akin  to  the  wilderness  in  which  she  seemed 
so  much  at  heme.  Having  crossed  a  rocky  hill,  she  entered 
a  grassy  foot-path,  and  soon  approached  a  dwelling  whence 
gleamed  a  faint  light.  Though  her  steps  apparently  gave 
forth  no  sound,  they  were  heard,  for  suddenly  innumerable 
echoes  filled  the  silent  valley,  and  two  dogs,  that  must  have 
been  large  and  fierce,  judging  from  their  deep  baying,  came 
bounding  toward  her.     With  a  low  laugh  she  said  : 

"  Here's  '  much  ado  about  nothing.'  There,  there. 
Tiger  and  Bull  ;  two  precious  fools  you  have  made  of  your- 
selves, not  to  know  me." 

The  great  dogs  fawned  at  her  feet  and  licked  her  hands, 
and,  by  the  humblest  canine  apologies,  sought  forgiveness 
for  their  rude  greeting. 

The  light  from  within  fell  upon  the  somewhat  haggard 
and  startled  face  of  a  man  who  stood  upon  the  door-step 
»nd  peered  out  into  the  darkness. 

"  It's  only  I,  father  ;"  and  in  a  moment  the  girl  was  a* 
bis  side. 


VERA    AND   HER  HOME.  1 3 

The  man  responded  but  slightly  to  her  caress,  and,  enter- 
ing  the  one  large  living-room  of  the  cottage,  sat  down,  with- 
out a  word,  in  its  most  shadowy  corner,  seemingly  finding 
something  congenial  in  its  gloom 

"  What  has  kept  you  so  late,  Vera?"  asked  a  woman 
who  was  taking  from  a  rude  cupboard  the  slender  materials 
of  the  evening  meal, 

"  I  was  watching  a  queer  little  sail-boat,  mother." 

"  Sail-boat,  sail-boat ;  has  it  landed  near  us  ?"  asked  the 
man,  starting  up. 

"  No,  father.  I  watched  till  it  disappeared  down  the 
river,"  said  the  girl,  soothingly. 

"  That's  a  good  child.  Still  it  does  not  signify  ;  no  one 
could  have  any  business  with  me. ' ' 

But  the  slight  tremor  of  excitement  in  the  girl's  tone 
caused  the  mother  to  give  her  a  quick,  searching  glance, 
and  she  saw  that  something  unusual  had  occurred. 

Vera  looked  smilingly  and  significantly  into  the  pale, 
anxious  face  turned  to  her,  and  her  glance  said,  "  I  will 
tell  you  all  by-and-by.  " 

The  woman  continued  her  tasks,  though  in  a  manner  so 
feeble  as  to  indicate  that  the  burden  of  life  was  growing  too 
heavy  to  be  borne  much  longer,  while  Vera  assisted  her  with 
the  quickness  of  youth  and  the  deftness  of  experience. 

From  a  little  "  lean-to"  against  the  side  of  the  house, 
used  as  a  kitchen,  an  aged  negress  now  appeared.  A  scar- 
let handkerchief  formed  a  sort  of  turban  above  her  wrinkled 
visage.  She  was  tall,  but  bent  with  years,  and  there  was  a 
trace  of  weird  dignity  in  her  bearing,  that  was  scarcely  in 
keeping  with  her  menial  position. 

"  Did  de  young  missis  bring  anyting?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,  Gula, "  said  the  young  girl,  lightly.  "The 
unmannerly  fish  laughed  me  to  scorn.  Though  I  tempted 
them  above  with  a  lily  bud,  and  beneath  with  a  wriggling 


'14  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

angle-worm,  not  one  would  come  home  with  me.  They 
were  afraid  of  you,  Gula. ' ' 

"  Den  dare's  nothin'  for  supper  but  milk  and  bread,  * 
muttered  the  old  woman. 

"  It  will  suffice  for  me.  To  morrow  I  will  be  up  with 
the  lark,  and  have  a  dish  of  strawberries  for  breakfast" 
And  she  hummed  to  herself : 

"  I  know  the  bank  whereon  they  grow— 
A  thing  Will  Shakspeare  does  not  know." 

The  mother  looked  at  her  fondly,  but  her  smile  ended  in 
3  sigh.  With  her,  almost  everything  in  life  was  now  ending 
with  a  sigh. 

The  frugal  repast  being  ready,  the  father  was  summoned, 
but  before  he  would  leave  his  partial  concealment,  he  asked 
Vera  to  close  the  window-shutters,  so  as  to  preclude  the 
possibility  of  any  one  looking  in  from  the  outer  darkness. 
The  man  seemed  haunted  by  some  vague  fear  which  was 
not  shared  by  the  rest  of  the  family,  but  which,  in  his  case, 
was  tacitly  recognized  and  humored.  He  ate  his  supper 
hurriedly,  and  then  retired  again  to  his  dusky  comer,  where 
he  sat  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  silent,  save  when 
spoken  to  by  his  wife  and  daughter,  who  evidently  tried  to 
retain  him  as  part  of  the  family  circle,  though  he  morbidly 
shrank  within  himself. 

The  mother  and  daughter  were  left  alone  at  the  table,  at 
which  they  sat  even  after  Gula  had  removed  to  the  kitchen 
the  slight  remnants  of  the  meal.  A  dip-candle  burned 
dimly  between  them,  and  lighted  up,  but  with  deep  con- 
trasts  of  shadow,  two  remarkable  faces — not  such  as  one 
would  expect  to  find  in  a  rude  log  cabin  of  the  wilderness  ; 
for  the  uncertain  rays  revealed  the  fact,  though  disguised  by 
many  a  dainty  rural  device,  that  the  walls  of  the  dwelling 
were  of  rough-hewn  logs.     But  the  homely  surroundings 


VERA    AND   HER  HOME.  1$ 

cmly  brought  out  more  clearly  the  unmistakable  refinement 
of  the  faces  of  mother  and  daughter,  now  turned  toward 
each  other  in  a  subtle  interchange  of  sympathy  that  scarcely 
needed  words.  They  seemed  to  have  formed  the  habit  of 
communicating  with  each  other  by  significant  glances  and 
little  signs  apparent  to  no  one  save  themselves,  and  there 
existed  between  theai  a  love  so  deep  and  absorbing  that  it 
was  ever  a  source  of  tranquil  pleasure  to  look  into  each 
other's  eyes.  This  silent  communion  was  rendered  neces- 
sary in  part,  because  there  was  much  of  which  they  could 
not  speak  in  the  presence  of  the  father  and  husband  in  his 
present  warped,  morbid  condition  of  mind.  To  her  mother 
Vera  embodied  her  name,  and  was  truth  itself,  reveaUng, 
like  her  playmates  the  mountain  streams,  ever}^thing  in  her 
crystal  thoughts,  To  her  father  she  was  equally  true,  but 
was  so  through  a  system  of  loving  disguises  and  conceal- 
ments. If  she  had  told  him  of  her  adventure  of  the  after- 
noon  he  would  have  been  greatly  excited,  and  sleep  were 
banished  for  the  night. 

The  mother  saw  that  Vera  had  a  confidence  to  give,  and 
quietly  waited  until  they  should  be  alone ;  and  as  she 
looked  tenderly  upon  her  child,  her  pale,  spiritual  face 
might  have  realized  the  ideal  of  pure  motherly  love.  As 
such,  in  after  years,  Vera  remembered  it.  It  was  well  that 
she  should  look  long  and  fondly  upon  those  dear  features, 
for  in  their  thin  transparency  they  promised  soon  to  become 
only  a  memory. 

But  Vera  knew  nothing  of  death.  She  had  never  seen  a 
pallid,  rigid  human  face,  and  the  thought  that  the  dear  face 
before  her  could  ever  become  such,  was  too  dreadful  to 
have  even  entered  her  mind. 

The  mother,  with  a  secret  and  growing  uneasiness,  had 
been  conscious  of  her  failing  powers.  Her  usual  household 
cares  became  daily  more  burdensome.  She  panted  i<X 
Roe— VI T  I— B 


e6  near    to  NATURE'S  HEART. 

breath,  after  tasks  that  once  seemed  light.  Her  rest,  instead 
of  being  sweet  and  refreshing,  was  broken  through  the  long 
night  by  a  hacking  cough,  which  the  bland  air  of  June  did 
not  remove  as  she  had  fondly  hoped.  But,  in  the  strange 
delusion  of  her  disease,  she  ever  expected  to  be  "  better  in 
a  few  days,"  and  she  never  had  the  courage  to  blanch  the 
joyous  face  of  Vera  with  the  vague  fear  which  in  spite  ot 
her  hopes  sometimes  found  entrance  to  her  mind.  The 
malady  had  been  so  slow  and  insidious  in  its  advances,  that 
Vera  had  not  noticed  the  daily  yet  almost  imperceptible 
changes,  but  old  Gula  sometimes  shook  her  head  ominously, 
though  she  said  nothing.  The  husband  was  too  deeply 
shadowed  by  one  oppressive  fear  to  have  thought  for  any- 
thing else  ;  and  so  the  poor  exile  (for  such  she  was)  uncon- 
sciously to  herself  and  those  she  loved,  daily  drew  nearer  to 
the  only  home  where  the  heart  is  at  rest. 

Upon  a  rustic  shelf  above  Vera's  head  were  two  books 
that  originally  had  been  quite  handsomely  bound.  They 
were  the  products  of  a  time  when  things  were  made  to  last  ; 
and  yet  such  had  been  their  vicissitudes  and  constant  use 
that  they  looked  old  and  worn.  They  were  the  only  books 
Vera  had  ever  seen.  They  had  been  the  story-books  of  her 
childhood,  and  long  before  she  could  read  them,  her  mother 
had  beguiled  her  by  the  hour  with  their  marvelous  tales. 
They  had  been  the  school-books  in  which  she  had  conned 
her  letters  ;  and,  following  her  mother's  pointing  finger,  she 
had  spelled  her  way  through  them,  when  the  long  and  un- 
pronounceable words  were  to  her  lisping  tongue  what  the 
ragged  boulders  around  their  home  were  to  her  little  feet. 
She  had  often  stumbled  over  both  ;  still  she  had  learned  to 
love  the  mossy  boulders  and  the  equally  formidable  words, 
and  the  latter  had  gradually  become  stepping-stones  to  her 
thoughts.  These  books  were  now  yearly  developing  for  her 
deeper  and  richer  meanings,  and  were  having  no  small  part 


VERA    AND  HER  HOME,  1 7 

In  the  fonnation  of  her  character.  The  gilt  letters  on  their 
backs  were  not  so  faded  and  worn  but  that  the  titles  could 
still  be  read — the  "  Plays  of  William  Shakspeare/' and  "  Holy 
Bible." 

The  former  had  been  given  to  Vera's  mother  in  other 
and  happier  days,  and  in  another  land,  by  the  man,  now 
but  a  wreck  of  the  handsome,  spirited  youth,  who  then  gave 
glances  and  words  with  the  gift,  which  she  valued  more  than 
the  book.  She  had  given  him  the  Bible  in  return,  and  he 
formerly  had  read  it  somewhat  for  her  sake,  though  seldom 
for  its  own.  The  Bible  was  much  the  smaller  and  plainer 
volume,  and  suggested  that  the  purse  of  the  donor  might 
not  have  been  as  large  as  her  love.  In  the  sudden  and  dire 
emergency  which  made  them  exiles,  these  two  gifts  of  affec- 
tion had  been  hastily  snatched  among  the  few  other  things 
they  had  been  able  to  take,  in  the  confused  and  hurried 
moment  of  departure.  . 

At  a  sign  from  her  mother.  Vera  took  down  this  Bible, 
and  drawing  the  failing  candle  nearer,  read  a  few  verses  from 
the  14  th  chapter  of  St.  John,  commencing,  "  Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled."  At  the  close  of  each  day,  for  many  sad 
and  anxious  years,  the  poor  woman  had  tried  to  sustain  her 
faith  by  these  divine,  reassuring  words.  They  were  read 
first,  not  only  for  her  own  support,  but  in  the  hope  that 
they  might  have  a  soothing,  calming  effect  upon  the  dis- 
quieted mind  of  her  husband.  To  Vera,  also,  she  believed 
that  they  might  eventually  become  a  legacy  of  hope  and 
strength.  After  they  were  read,  some  other  passage  was 
also  chosen. 

The  mother  had  opened  the  kitchen  door  that  Gula  might 
hear,  if  she  would,  since  she  never  could  be  persuaded  to  be 
present  at  the  family  altar.  Gula  had  been  stolen  from  her 
African  home,  where,  as  she  once  hinted  in  a  moment  oi 
anger,  she  had  possessed  some  rude  and  savage  kind  of  roy- 


1 8  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

alty,  and  since  that  time  she  had  suffered  cruelty  and  wrongs 
without  stint  from  those  who  called  themselves  Christians  ; 
thus  she  naturally  chose  to  remain  a  pagan. 

As  Vera  read  the  sacred  words,  the  mother's  face,  where 
she  sat,  a  little  back  from  the  light,  was  sweet  and  shadowy 
enough  to  be  that  of  a  guardian  spirit. 

The  comer  in  which  the  father  remained  had  grown  so 
dark  that  only  the  gleam  of  his  restless  eyes  could  be  seen. 
Vera's  voice  was  sweet,  low,  and  reverent.  It  was  not  a 
form,  but  a  heartfelt  service  in  which  she  was  leading,  and 
one  that  she  knew  to  be  dear  to  her  mother. 

She  made  a  pretty  picture,  with  the  dim  candle  lighting 
up  her  classic  profile  and  a  bit  of  her  golden  hair.  All  the 
rest  was  in  partial  and  suggestive  shadow. 

After  the  lesson  of  the  day  had  been  read,  they  sat  a  few 
moments  in  prayerful  silence.  With  the  shrinking  timidity 
which  some  w-omen  find  it  impossible  to  overcome,  this 
Christian  wife  had  learned  to  pray  unceasingly  in  her  heart, 
but  could  never  venture  upon  outspoken  words.  Her  nature 
was  gentleness  itself,  and  strong  only  in  its  power  to  cling 
with  unselfish,  unfearing  tenacity  to  those  she  loved.  Had 
her  husband  been  condemned  to  suffer  any  form  cf  death, 
her  meek  spirit  would  have  uttered  no  protest,  but  only 
force  could  have  prevented  her  from  sharing  his  fate.  If, 
by  interposing  her  own  life  she  could  save  her  daughter's, 
she  would  give  it  up  so  naturally  and  instinctively  that  the 
thought  of  self  sacrifice  would  not  even  occur  to  her.  Years 
before,  she  had  renounced,  for  the  sake  of  her  love,  every- 
thing save  honor  ;  and  though  knowing  that  exile  and  soon 
death  itself  would  result,  she  never  considered  the  possibility 
of  any  other  course,  but  in  resignation  accepted  what  she 
regarded  as  her  inevitable  lot.  Where  she  loved  most,  with 
the  certainty  of  gravitation,  her  steps  would  follow,  while  the 
power  remained.     She  was  one  whom  the  world  would  call 


VEKA   AND  HER  NOME.  1 9 

weak,  but  whose  strength  God  would  honor,  because  pos- 
sessing in  her  humble  sphere  His  loftiest  attribute,  patient, 
all-enduring  love. 

Before  seeking  her  own  little  nest,  Vera  went  out  to  speak 
to  the  old  negress,  whom  she  found  sitting  on  a  low  door- 
step, smoking  her  pipe. 

"  Art  lonely,  Gula  ?" 

"  No,  chile,  I'se  got  past  dat.  Dare's  lots  talkin'  to  ole 
Gula." 

"  Why,  I  hear  nothing  save  the  whippoorwills,  and  the 
frogs  in  the  marsh." 

"  I  doesn't  hear  dem.  De  voices  dat  come  to  me  come 
from  far  back  o'  dese  mountains.      I  isn't  loiiely  any  mo'." 

"  How  queer  !"  said  Vera  musingly.  "  But  you  were 
lonely  once,  Gula?" 

"  Yes,  chile  ;  for  nigh  on  twenty  summer  and  winter  my 
heart  was  a-breakin'.  I  was  so  homesick  like,  dat  I  wanted 
to  die  ebeiy  minute.  Den  I  died.  My  heart  was  jus  a 
heavy  stun  in  my  bres'  ;  only  my  body  was  kind  o'  half 
alive  so  it  could  work  when  day  whipped  it  But  de  heart 
inside  didn't  tink  nuffin,  nor  feel  nuffin,  nor  know  nuflSn. 
On  a  sudden,  one  night,  I  kindo'  woke  up  and  heerd  voices 
a  callin'  me  to  run,  and  1  got  up  and  run,  and  trabbled  for 
days  and  nights  till.  I  got  here;  den  de  voices  tole  me  to 
Stop.  And  I'se  a  stoppin'  and  a  waitin'  to  see  what  de 
voices  say  nex. ' ' 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  said  Vera  wonderingly. 

'*  No,  chile,  you  needn't  try." 

**  Where  do  these  voices  come  from  ?" 

"  From  way  back  o'  dese  hills — from  farder  dan  de  greaj 
water  whar  dem  floatin'  miseries,  dey  call  ships,  go — from 
whar  de  sun  shine  hotter  dan  it  did  to-day,  all  de  time.  Oh, 
dis  poor  ole  heart's  nebber  been  warm  since  dey  carried 
me,  screamin',  on  de  floatin'  misery.     Go  to  bed,  chile,  go 


so  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

to  bed  ;  ole  Gula  hopes  you'se  body'll  nebber  be  alive  artet 
your  heart's  dead," 

"  Poor  old  Gula,"  said  Vera,  in  a  voice  so  gentle,  so 
sympathetic,  that  it  would  have  moved  the  stoniest  nature. 
"I'm  very  sorry  for  you.  '  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled/ 
Gula." 

The  old  woman  was  touched  by  the  young  girl's  compas= 
sion  ;  but  she  had  a  strange,  rugged  pride,  that  prevented 
her  from  ever  receiving  openly  what  still  was  balm  in  secret. 
Probably  the  voices  that  had  induced  the  fugitive  to  stay  at 
the  humble  cottage  v/ere  those  of  her  present  mistress  and 
Vera,  speaking  in  the  long  unheard  accents  of  kindness, 
though  in  the  poor  creature's  disordered  fancy  they  had 
blended  with  those  she  imagined  coming  from  her  old  tropi- 
cal home.     Therefore,  the  roughness  with  which  she  said, 

"  Dare,  dare,  chile,  none  o'  dat,  don't  keep  you'se 
mudder  waitin'  ;  go  to  bed,"  was  only  assumed  to  disguise 
the  sudden  relenting  which  usually  takes  place  when  the 
flintiest  heart  is  touched  by  the  potent  wand  of  kindness. 

"  Good  night,  Gula,"  said  Vera.  "  Among  your  voices 
you  shall  always  hear  mine  ;  and  I  hope  it  won't  be  cross 
often  ;"  and  she  followed  her  mother,  who  had  already  gone 
on  before  to  her  child's  sleeping  apartment. 

It  was  as  strange  a  little  nook  as  one  could  imagine  ;  and 
if  Vera  had  been  a  nymph  of  the  mountains,  as  her  appear- 
ance had  suggested  to  Saville,  this  resting-place  would  have 
been  in  harmony.  The  rude  cottage  had  been  built  at  the 
sloping  base  of  the  rocky  height  crowned  in  later  years  with 
the  frowning  walls  of  Fort  Putnam.  Just  above  the  cabin 
on  the  southern  side,  a  huge  crag  projected  so  far  from  the 
rocky  steep  as  to  form  a  natural  shelter  or  sort  of  cave. 
This  little  niche  had  been  enlarged  by  excavation,  and  the 
granite  eaves  extended  by  rough-hewn  boards,  so  as  to  form 
quite  a  roomy  apartment,  which  Vera  and  her  mother  had 


VERA   AND   HER  HOME.  21 

disguised  into  as  dainty  a  rural  bower  as  any  grotto  of  the 
Grecian  n^mpias.  It  was  connected  with  the  main  living- 
room  of  the  cabin  by  a  covered  way  securely  thatched  and 
protected  at  the  sides  by  heavy  logs,  fastened  in  the  securest 
manner.  Indeed  the  entire  dwelling  had  been  built  with 
almost  the  strength  of  a  fortress,  and  Vera's  father  seemed 
to  find  a  growing  satisfaction  in  strengthening  its  various 
parts  with  stone  and  wood.  The  brief  ascent  to  her  "  nest" 
— as  the  young  girl  called  it — was  made  by  stone  steps. 
When  her  mother  grew  feeble.  Vera  brought  home  a  slender 
grapevine  that  she  had  found  swinging  from  a  lofty  forest- 
tree,  and  stretched  it  from  her  door  to  that  of  the  living- 
room.  By  laying  hold  of  this,  the  ascent  could  be  made 
with  greater  ease.  A  stout  cord  passed  along  the  roof,  so 
that  if  anything  happened,  summons  or  alarm  could  be 
given  instantly.  But  though  the  poor  man  who  arranged 
all  these  precautions  seemed  burdened  with  an  increasing 
dread,  the  years  had  passed,  and  they  had  been  unmolested 
in  their  wilderness  retreat. 

The  mother  placed  the  candle  on  a  little  bureau,  and  sat, 
panting  from  her  climb,  on  the  edge  of  Vera's  couch.  The 
daughter  drew  a  bench  forward,  and  dropping  on  it,  leaned 
her  arms  on  her  mother's  lap  and  looked  up  into  her  face 
as  she  did  when  a  little  child.  Indeed,  in  her  guileless 
innocence  and  ignorance  of  the  world  from  which  she  had 
ever  been  secluded,  she  was  still  a  child,  though  fully  sixteen. 

"  Now,  mother,  you  have  been  working  too  hard  again 
to-day,"  she  said  reproachfully.      "  See  how  tired  you  are." 

"  No,  dear — I  am  only  a  little  breathless — from  climbing 
to  your  nest.  I  get  out  of  breath  so  easily  of  late.  Now 
tell  me  what  has  happened." 

Vera  described  her  adventure  of  the  afternoon,  which  in 
her  tranquil  life  was  a  notable  event.  She  dwelt  long  and 
somewhat  admiringly  upon  the  stranger's  appearance  and 


22  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

manner,  especially  his  act  of  putting  the  v.ater-lily  bud  in 
his  button- hole. 

"  If  he  xoves  flowers,  mother,  he  can' t  be  bad. 

But  it  was  upon  the  notes  of  his  flute  that  she  descanted 
most  enthusiastically.  ' '  And  do  you  know,  mother,  he 
played  the  same  air  that  I  had  been  singing,  and  which  you 
taught  me  years  ago.  But  he  must  have  thought  me  wild 
as  a  hawk." 

' '  No,  dear,  as  timid  as  a  dove. ' ' 

"  Well,  I  was  greatly  startled  at  first.  When  I  got  a  good 
look  at  him  I  was  not  so  much  afraid.  But  you,  and  espe- 
cially father,  have  so  often  warned  me  against  making 
acquaintances.     You  don't  think  I  was  rude,  now  ?" 

"  No,  dear,  no  more  than  the  birds  that  take  wing  when 
you  come  too  near." 

' '  The  birds  are  getting  very  presuming,  mother  ;  they 
either  think  that  I  am  one  of  them  or  not  worth  minding. 
They  only  cock  their  little  heads  on  one  side  and  give  me  a 
saucy  look,  and  then  go  about  their  business  just  as  if  I  were 
not  near. ' ' 

*'  They  know  and  do  not  fear  their  friends,"  said  the 
mother  abstractedly,  "  and  you  have  been  their  harmless 
playmate  so  long  that  they  know  all  about  you."  And  the 
poor  woman  gave  a  long  sigh. 

"  Now  what  does  that  mean,  mother?" 

"  That  you  cannot  always  have  such  innocent  and  harm- 
/ess  companions.  You  are  growing  up,  Vera.  You  cannot 
always  be  a  little  wild-flower  of  the  woods.  You  must  make 
acquaintances  erelong.  It  is  needful  that  you  should. 
But  how  are  you  to  make  them  1  Where  are  you  to  find 
them  .?  We  are  strangely  situated.  I  wish  we  had  some 
good  neighbors,  and  your  father  did  not  feel  as  he  does." 

"  Ought  I  then  to  have  stayed  and  spoken  to  this  young 
man?" 


^  VERA  AND  HER  HOME.  23 

"  No,  darling,  you  did  right.  He  was  an  utter  stranger. 
And  yet  such  are  all  the  world.  The  ordinary  ties  which 
unite  us  to  our  fellow  creatures  seem  utterly  broken,  and 
our  isolation  is  so  complete  that  I  see  no  escape  from  it. 
For  myself  I  do  not  mind  it.  I  am  content.  But  for  your 
sake,  Vera,  I  do  indeed  wish  it  were  otherwise." 

"  I  too  am  content,  mother.  The  woods  are  full  of  play- 
mates for  me,  and  we  chatter  away  to  each  other  as  merrily 
as  the  day  is  long.  We  are  beginning  to  understand  each 
other  too.  Do  you  know,  mother,  that  the  sounds  of  nature 
seem  a  sort  of  language  which  I  am  fast  learning .?  I  went 
cut  on  the  hills  the  other  day  after  the  shower,  and  found  a 
brook  and  a  brown-thrush  singing  a  duet  together,  and  I 
sat  down  and  mocked  them  till  I  learned  what  they  were 
saying" — and  in  almost  perfect  mimicry  she  first  gave  the 
gurgling  murmur  of  the  stream  and  then  the  mellow  whistle 
of  the  thrush. 

"  You  are  a  strange  child,  Vera,  But  what  did  the  brook 
and  bird  say?     I  do  not  understand  their  language." 

"  Why,  it's  plain  as  can  be.  They  said,  '  Cheer  up. 
Vera.  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled.  After  the  shower 
comes  the  sunshine. '  What  else  could  they  mean  }  There 
was  the  brook  sparkling  in  the  sunlight,  and  singing  the 
louder  for  the  shower ;  and  there  was  the  little  bird,  which 
neither  the  lightning  nor  the  rain  had  hurt. " 

Tears  came  into  the  mother's  eyes,  and  kissing  her  child, 
she  said  : 

' '  Good  night,  Vera  ;  you  are  so  innocent  that  God  talks 
with  you,  as  He  did  with  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  garden." 

The  mother  returned  to  the  main  room,  which  was  also 
used  as  a  sleeping  apartment  Gula  had  already  retired  by 
some  rude  steps  to  her  loft  overhead. 

With  the  dawn  of  the  next  day,  the  mother  was  awakened 
bjr  Vera's  receding  voice,  mingling  with  the  songs  of  hei 


84  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

music- masters,  the  birds,  and  knew  that  she  had  gone  for 
the  promised  strawberries.  Before  ver}'  long,  she  returned 
with  an  oddly  constructed  basket  of  broad  leaves,  heaped 
up  with  the  daintiest  fruit  of  the  year,  and  a  m.oment  later 
the  cabin  was  filled  with  their  wild  aroma,  as,  with  scarlet 
fingers.  Vera  quickly  prepared  them  for  breakfast. 

"  How  kind  it  was  of  you  to  get  us  these  berries,"  said 
her  mother.  "  I  thought  I  had  lost  my  appetite  altogether, 
but  these  taste  so  good  that  I  must  be  better.  Perhaps  they 
will  make  me  well." 

The  flush  of  pleasure  that  came  into  Vera's  face  vied  with 
the  ruby  fruit,  and  she  said,  joyously  : 

'*  You  shall  have  them,  mother,  as  long  as  there  is  one 
to  be  found  in  the  shadiest  nook." 

The  light  of  day  now  revealed  clearly  the  character  of 
their  abode,  which,  in  its  exterior,  did  not  differ  greatly 
from  the  ordinary  log  cabin  of  the  frontier.  There  had 
evidently  been  an  effort  to  make  it  exceedingly  strong,  and 
on  every  side  were  loop-holes,  through  which  could  be 
passed  the  muzzle  of  a  rifie. 

But  the  usual  bareness  and  unsightliness  of  these  primitive 
dwellings  had  been  quite  removed  by  festoons  of  the  Ameri- 
can woodbine  (or  ivy)  which-  Vera  had  planted  at  the  cor- 
ners, and  trained  along  the  eaves  and  to  the  very  ridge. 
There  were  also  attempts  at  flower-beds,  in  which  she  had 
sought  to  tame  some  of  her  wild  favorites  of  the  woods. 

But  the  interior  was  an  interesting  study,  from  the  effort 
of  refinement,  everywhere  manifest,  to  triumph  over  the 
rudest  materials.  Such  of  the  furniture  as  had  been  bought, 
was  strong  and  plain,  and  had  evidently  been  selected  from 
motives  of  economy.  This  had  been  added  to  and  supple- 
mented as  far  as  the  ingenuity  of  the  inmates  permitted,  and 
on  every  side  were  seen  pretty  little  things  that  were  not 
childish,  and  yet  would  please  a  child. 


i^ERA    AND   HER   HOME.  25 

Autumn  leaves,  still  brilliant,  which  Vera  had  pressed, 
with  great  pains,  between  dry  leaves  preserved  for  the  pur- 
pose, festooned  the  unsightly  walls,  producing  an  effect  that 
gave  the  young  girl  more  content  then  Gobelin  tapestry  gives 
to  its  princely  possessors.  Mingling  with  these  festoons 
were  button-balls,  cut  the  preceding  autumn  from  the  plane- 
tree,  and  bright  red  berries.  In  one  corner  was  a  huge 
hornet's  nest,  suspended  from  the  branch  where  its  savage 
little  architects  had  built  it  the  year  before,  and  whose  con- 
struction Vera  had  watched  with  great  interest,  until,  in  the 
fall,  the  paper  citadel,  that  an  army  would  hesitate  to  attack, 
was  evacuated  ;  then  she  had  carried  it  home  as  a  trophy. 
But  she  found  that  it  still  contained  a  small  garrison,  which 
occasioned  no  little  commotion  as  they  recovered  from  their 
torpor  in  the  warmth  of  the  room.  On  a  spray  beside  this 
fortress,  was  placed,  for  contrast,  an  abode  of  peace — a  hum- 
ming-bird's tiny  nest.  In  place  of  prosaic  pegs  and  hooks, 
the  antlers  of  the  stag  were  fastened  here  and  there,  and 
served  many  a  useful  purpose.  Rustic  brackets,  and  a 
cross  of  gray  bark,  with  a  mossy  base,  divested  the  apart- 
ment of  all  appearance  of  the  squalid  poverty  that  often 
characterizes  the  pioneer's  cabin. 

But  the  principal  feature  was  the  wide  stone  fireplace  into 
which  for  many  years  Vera  could  pass  without  stooping, 
and  in  the  corner  of  which  she  still  sat  on  winter  evenings, 
reading  by  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire,  her  inexhaustible 
story  book,  the  "  Plays  of  William  Shakspeare."  Over  the 
hearth  was  a  great  iron  crane  ;  and  it  was  a  proud  day  for 
Vera  when  she  learned  to  relieve  her  mother  by  swinging  it 
in  and  out,  deftly  hanging  thereon  the  sooty  kettle,  without 
smirching  her  hands  or  dress.  Above  a  rude  mantel,  on 
which  Vera  had  placed  some  odd  little  ornaments  gathered 
in  her  rambles,  were  suspended  a  long  rifle  of  very  fine 
workmanship,  and  a  silver-mounted  fowling-piece,   which 


26  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

the  exiles  had  brought  with  them,  rightly  estimating  theiF 
value  when  seeking  a  refuge  in  the  wilderness.  The  shot- 
gun was  light  but  strong,  and  of  exquisite  finish,  and  had 
in  other  days  brought  down  many  a  pheasant  in  English 
parks.  It  carried  just  as  truly  now,  and  Vera  had  learned  to 
be  almost  as  unerring  in  its  use  as  her  father.  In  conse- 
quence, a  plump  partridge  frequently  graced  their  board  that 
too  often  was  meagre  enough.  For  a  large  part  of  the  year 
game  was  their  principal  food,  as  her  father  supported  his 
family  by  hunting  and  trapping.  But  of  late  he  had  grown 
so  moody  and  uncertain  in  his  actions,  that  for  days  he 
would  sit  in  his  shadowy  corner  brooding  over  some  dark 
secret  of  the  past.  It  would  then  devolve  on  Vera  alone  to 
supply  the  needs  of  the  household,  and  at  times  the  poor 
child's  heart  was  heavy,  as  weary  and  discouraged  she  re- 
turned in  the  evening  only  to  report  her  ill-success.  Then 
her  father  would  rouse  up  as  if  his  manhood  were  struggling 
against  the  paralysis  creeping  over  his  mind,  and  he  would 
be  more  like  his  former  self.  But  as  Vera  grew  older,  and 
more  acquainted  with  the  habits  and  haunts  of  game,  and 
learned  sn  what  waters  to  drop  her  line  successfully,  she 
became  more  self-reliant  and  confident  that  she  could  at 
least  maintain  a  supply  of  food  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst.  On  days  when  the  man's  mind  was  most  unclouded, 
he  would,  at  his  wife's  solicitation,  take  the  skins  and  prod' 
nets  of  the  chase  to  some  village  down  the  river,  and  bartef 
them  for  such  things  as  were  needed.  A  little  of  the  hoard 
of  gold  which  they  had  brought  with  them  still  remained, 
and  was  kept  for  some  emergency  of  the  future. 

Thus  the  years  passed  on,  and  Vera  was  ceasing  to  be  a 
child  in  appearance,  though  still  a  child  in  guileless  sim- 
plicity, and  content  with  the  pleasures  and  duties  which  had 
filled  her  time  thus  far. 


THE  ICONOCLASTS,  *1 


CHAPTER    III. 


THE  ICOXOCLASTS. 


THE  northern  breeze  caused  Saville's  boat  to  glide  rap- 
idly through  the  looming  shadows  of  the  lower 
Highlands,  and  in  comparatively  brief  time  lights  glimmered 
invitmgly  from  the  village  of  Peekskill,  which  was  situated 
at  the  head  of  a  wide  bay  upon  the  eastern  shore.  Here  he 
decided  to  seek  refreshment  and  spend  the  night,  intending 
to  pursue  his  homeward  journey  the  following  morning. 

The  episode  of  the  afternoon  had  formed  a  pleasing  but 
temporary  diversion  to  the  thoughts  it  had  interrupted  ;  but 
now,  with  increasing  power  to  pain  and  agitate,  they  came 
trooping  back.  In  the  consciousness  of  solitude  and  in  the 
enshrouding  darkness,  he  made  less  effort  at  self-controL 
His  features  were  distorted  by  contending  emotions,  and  he 
often  gave  vent  to  passionate  exclamations.  It  was  evident 
that  a  painful  question  was  pressing  upon  him  for  immediate 
solution,  and  that  the  results  of  his  action  in  any  case  would 
be  very  serious. 

But  by  the  time  he  reached  the  rude  wharf  he  regained 
his  self-command,  and  having  moored  his  boat,  sought  a 
dwelling  which  combined  the  character  of  farm-house  and 
tavern.  Here  he  received  a  welcome  that  was  but  in  part 
professional,  for  in  those  days  of  limited  travel,  a  stranger 
was  an  event,  and  a  guest  in  reality  as  well  as  in  name, 
being  often  made  much  of,  and  becoming  an  object  of 
absorbing  interest,  it  might  be  added  also,  of  curiosity,  to 
bis  entertainers. 


28  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

Saville  found  the  little  inn  already  in  a  state  cf  excitement 
and  bustle  over  the  arrival  of  an  old  acquaintance  of  his 
own,  a  wealthy,  pleasure-loving  young  gentleman  from  the 
city  below,  who  was  off  on  a  fishing  excursion,  and  who 
eagerly  sought  to  gain  Saville  as  a  companion, 

"  What  is  the  news  from  the  army  before  Boston  ?"  asked 
Saville,  gloomily. 

' '  *  The  army  before  Boston  '  be  hanged,  and  the  army 
in  Boston  also.  I  could  not  sit  down  to  dinner  but  a  fire- 
brand of  a  patriot  would  pluck  one  sleeve,  and  demand, 
'  Are  you  for  Liberty .? '  and  an  ancient  fossil  who  had 
brushed  against  a  duke,  or  mayhap  a  duchess,  would  pluck 
the  other  sleeve,  and  querulously  question,  '  Are  you  not 
for  the  King  ? '  It  was  in  vain  that  I  anathematized  both, 
and  said,  '  No,  I'  m  for  dinner. '  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
peace  down  there,  unless  you  are  ranting  on  one  side  or  the 
other.  So  I  snatched  my  fishing  tackle,  and  showing  a 
clean  pair  of  heels,  am  here  among  the  mountains.  It's  a 
confounded  poor  world  for  a  man  to  enjoy  himself  in. 
There  are  always  two  parties  in  it  bound  to  devour  each 
other,  and  if  you  won't  raven  on  one  side  or  the  other, 
they'll  both  turn  in  and  rend  you.  I  don't  care  whether 
the  laws  are  made  in  Philadelphia  or  London,  if  they  will 
only  let  me  alone.  There,  I'm  through  with  the  accursed 
squabbles  of  the  hour.  I'm  here  to  get  rid  of  them,  and 
intend  for  the  next  few  days  to  forget  the  existence  of  both 
Parliament  and  Congress.  So  come  with  me,  and  keep 
out  of  purgatory  as  long  as  you  can." 

In  spite  of  his  prolonged  mental  conflict,  Saville  still  felt 
himself  unequal  to  solve  the  question  that  burdened  him  ; 
and  so  to  gain  time  and  distract  his  thoughts,  he  complied 
with  his  friend's  wish. 

On  the  following  morning  they  started,  equipped  for  the 
sport.     It  was  the  Sabbath,  but  in  SaAiUe'  s  estimation  the 


THE  ICONOCLASTS.  29 

day  was  no  more  sacred  than  would  be  a  Decadi  of  the  com- 
ing French  Revolution.  He  had  lived  in  infidel  France 
sufficiently  long  to  regard  the  Sabbath  as  a  relic  of  super- 
stition. He  was  a  disciple  of  the  "  New  Philosophy,"  and 
had  faith  in  naught  save  man,  and  man  was  a  law  unto 
himself. 

But  the  sport  which  completely  absorbed  his  companion 
dragged  heavily  with  Saville,  and  after  a  few  days  he  returned 
to  his  boat,  resolving  to  put  off  his  decision  no  longer  ;  so 
the  latter  part  of  the  week  saw  him  again  beating  southward 
against  the  wind  with  many  a  long  tack,  as  the  river  broad- 
ened before  him. 

Saville's  position  was  a  trj'ing  one,  and  yet  not  peculiar 
in  tnat  day  when  the  plowshare  of  division  ran,  not  only 
through  communities,  social  circles,  and  churches,  but  also 
through  families,  severing  the  closest  ties.  In  order  that 
his  present  circumstances  and  character  may  be  better  un- 
derstood, it  will  be  necessary  to  take  a  brief  glance  into  the 
past 

Theron  Savilie  combined  both  the  French  and  Dutch  el©' 
ments  in  his  parentage.  On  his  father's  side  he  came  frcan 
that  grand  old  Huguenot  stock  which  has  largely  leavened 
for  good  the  American  character.  He  had  thus  inherited  s 
legacy  of  prayer  and  sacred  memories  from  his  ancestry, 
and  might  ii  he  v.'ouid,  receive  the  blessing  which  descends 
to  children's  children  :  a  *'  covenant-keeping  God"  would 
faithfully  seek  to  reclaim  him  from  evil.  But  he  had  utterly 
abandoned  the  faith  of  his  fathers,  and  was  now  an  open 
unbeliever. 

His  moral  state  was  the  natural  result  of  the  influences  he 
had  fallen  under  during  his  education.  In  accordance  with 
a  custom  quite  common  among  patrician  families  in  colonial 
days,  hs  had  been  sent  to  Europe  to  finish  his  studies. 
i^ter  a  few  years  at  an  English  university  he  went  to  Paris  td 


3©  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

acquire  his  profession,  that  of  military  and  civil  engineering. 
But  his  tastes  did  not  lead  in  the  direction  of  exact  and 
practical  science,  and  he  appreciated  the  French  opera  far 
more  than  French  roads  and  fortifications.  But  it  was  the 
new  and  skeptical  literature  of  that  chaotic  age  that  chiefly 
fascinated  him.  The  brilliant  theorists  and  iconoclasts  who 
were  then,  with  jest  and  infinite  wit,  recklessly  sapping  the 
foundations  of  the  slowly  built  structures  of  human  belief, 
of  social  custom,  and  of  established  government,  seemed  to 
him  the  heroes  of  the  world.  He,  as  little  as  they,  foresaw 
the  crashing  ruin  for  which  they  were  preparing.  Bigoted 
violence  had  succeeded  only  too  well  in  stamping  out  and 
exiling  the  Huguenot  element,  and  what  then  passed  for 
religion  in  France,  was  such  a  wretched  imposition  as  to  be 
despised  even  by  its  consecrated  priests.  Social  distinctions 
were  arbitrary  and  unnatural.  Etiquette  ruled  in  the  place 
of  fidelity  and  principle,  and  behind  this  tinsel  mask  gross 
license  rioted.  Government  had  become  simply  the  oppres- 
sion of  the  many  by  the  few — an  organized  system  to  rob  the 
people  that  the  titled  might  indulge  in  unbounded  extrava- 
gance. The  corner-stone,  which  is  the  family,  with  its  sacred 
and  guarded  rights,  had  crumbled,  and  the  whole  social  and 
political  fabric  was  consequently  tottering  in  inevitable  weak- 
ness. The  character  of  the  times  made  it  far  easier  to  scoff 
and  strike  at  all  institutions  that  should  be  sacred  than  to 
reform  them  ;  and  the  leading  minds  of  the  day  were  great 
only  in  their  genius  for  satire  and  innovation.  But  it  was 
the  fearful  degeneracy  in  the  institutions  themselves  that 
gave  point  to  the  sarcasm,  and  it  was  their  crumbling  weak- 
ness that  made  blows,  which  now  seem  puny,  then  to  appear 
herculean. 

Young  Saville,  unschooled  by  experience,  had  just  the 
temperament  to  be  carried  away  by  the  railing  and  irreverent 
spirit  of  the  age.     Naturally  visionary,  enthusiastic,   and 


THE  IC0NGCLAST3.  31 

gifted  with  far  more  imagination  than  judgment,  he  reveled 
in  the  "  Atheistic  Philosophy/'  and  exulted  over  it  as  the 
groundwork  of  a  new  and  better  order  of  things.  Voltaire 
enchained  him  by  his  boundless  wiL  Diderot,  and  even 
Helvetius  with  his  gross,  materialistic  theory,  that  sensation 
originates  all  that  there  is  in  man,  became  his  masters,  while 
in  political  creed  he  was  a  disciple  of  Jean  Jacques  Rous- 
seau. Liberty,  which  was  of  an  impossible  ki.id — liberty, 
which  from  the  absence  of  safeguards  and  foundations  must, 
and  in  fact  did,  degenerate  into  the  wildest  license,  became 
his  dream  ;  and  he  hoped  to  become  eventually  an  apost'e 
of  this  French  ideal  of  freedom,  in  his  own  land. 

Yet  when  the  time  came  for  Saville  to  return  to  New 
York,  he  had  not  become  utterly  vitiated  by  the  evil  influ- 
ences which  were  then  demoralizing  a  nation.  Something 
in  the  old  Huguenot  blood  and  in  his  early  training  stiu 
remained  in  his  nature  as  a  germ  that  migb*  be  developed 
into  healthful  growth.  He  was  not  false,  though  unre- 
strained by  religion,  or  even  by  what  was  regarded  as  moral- 
ity m  his  own  land  ;  he  accepted  the  world's  code  of  honor 
and  unlike  the  world  in  which  he  had  been  living,  was  true 
to  it.  His  word  bound  him  ;  and  though  capable  of  very 
wrong  action,  he  shrank  from  anything  mean,  base,  or  un- 
grateful. He  was  not  coldly,  selfishly,  and  deliberately 
depraved  at  heart  He  scoffed  with  his  favorite  author, 
Voltaire,  not  at  what  he  beheved  sacred,  but  at  what,  in  that 
false  age,  pretended  to  sacredness,  and  was  in  fact  a  solemn 
and  venerable  farce.  The  truth  back  of  this,  which  had 
been  corrupted  or  abandoned  altogether,  he  did  not  recog- 
nize nor  even  believe  in  its  existence.  A  false  priesthood 
had  made  religion  a  byword  and  a  hissing.  As  ignorant 
and  superficial  as  the  leaders  of  opinion,  he  did  not  distin- 
g'uish  the  purer  faith  of  his  fathers  from  the  gross  super- 
stition from  which  it  bad  separated  itself,  but  condemned 


$2  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

all  religion  as  the  folly  of  credulity,  the  evidence  of  a  weak 
and  unenlightened  mind. 

He  was  heartily  in  sympathy  with  Rousseau's  best  char- 
acteristic, hatred-  of  the  artificial  and  unnatural,  and  joined 
in  his  protest  against  the  absurd  and  arbitrary  tyranny  of 
etiquette  and  monstrous  custom.  He  believed  with  the  great 
innovator,  that  after  the  rags  had  been  taken  from  the  peas- 
ant, and  the  titles  and  court  dress  lifted  from  the  noble,  in 
each  case  remained  that  essential  atom  of  society — man  ; 
and  he  held  that  this  human  unit,  with  its  innate  rights  and 
qualities,  naturally  develcped,  must  be  the  starting  point  in 
the  reorganization  of  the  political  fabric. 

He  could  not  then  see  that  he  and  his  teachers  would 
ever  build  in  vain,  even  were  they  to  attempt  reconstruc- 
tion ;  for  they  ignored  man's  moral  and  spiritual  nature  and 
its  needs.  Let  man  build  his  side  of  the  arch  never  so  well, 
the  work  would  crumble,  because  the  opposite  side,  which 
is  God  and  the  pure  morality  of  his  law,  and  the  key-stone, 
which  is  inteJligent  faith  and  obedience,  would  be  utterly 
lacking. 

But  there  was  hope  for  Saville,  because  he  was  so  sincere 
in  his  skepticism  ;  because  he  accepted  so  enthusiastically 
theories,  the  majority  of  which  now  have  in  history  a  record 
like  that  of  brilliant  meteors  only.  He  had  not  reached  the 
most  hopeless  of  mental  attitudes,  that  of  coldly  doubting 
everything,  nor  had  he  sunk  into  the  apathy  of  discourage- 
ment, or  plunged  into  the  recklessness  of  those  who  see 
nothing  good  or  sure  save  present  gratification. 

His  authors  were  demi-gods,  and  adorned  a  temple  of 
feme  which  he  might  enter.  He  was  not  near  enough  to 
know  the  selfishness,  meanness,  and  often  baseness  of  their 
lives.  If  he  had  read  the  confessions  ot  Rousseau,  he 
might  not  so  readily  have  become  his  disciple.  The  fact 
that  he  could  honestly  believe  in  these  writers  and  their 


THE  ICONOCLASTS.  .^3 

teachings,  proved  him  capable  of  accepting  the  truth  with 
equal  heartiness,  when  once  apprehended. 

Saville  heard  with  pleasure  of  the  growing  restlessness  in 
the  American  colonies  under  British  rule,  and  ardently 
hoped  that  he  might  there  become  a  leading  advocate  of  the 
broad  liberty  of  the  new  philosophy. 

It  became  his  favorite  dream  that  he  might  be  one  of  the 
founders  of  a  republic  in  the  new  world,  in  which  liberty 
and  equality  should  be  the  corner-stones,  human  reason  the 
sole  architect,  and  nature  the  inspiration.  During  his  voy- 
age home,  he  spent  much  of  his  time  in  the  imaginary  con- 
struction of  this  Utopia  of  the  future,  in  which  he  hoped  to 
have  no  mean  place.  Nor  was  it  at  all  surprising  that  one 
of  his  age  and  temperament  should  have  fallen  completely 
under  the  influence  of  the  philosophy  that  was  then  sweep- 
ing  'jver  the  world. 


34  NEAR   TO  NATURES  HEART, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

*'  FOR  WORSS." 

SAVIL1LE  had  not  been  long  in  his  native  city  before  an 
event  occurred  that  changed  the  spirit  of  his  dreams, 
or  rather  blended  them  with  others  of  a  different  nature. 
The  nebulous  goddess  of  liberty,  at  whose  feet  he  had  been 
worshiping,  was  exchanged  for  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood, 
earthy  indeed,  material  even  to  her  mind.  But  Saville  had 
a  faculty  of  seeing  things,  not  as  they  were,  but  through  a 
transfiguring  mist  of  his  own  imagination. 

During  his  voyage  home,  his  father  had  died  suddenly, 
and,  in  consequence,  young  Saville,  for  a  few  months  im- 
mediately after  his  return,  was  much  secluded  from  social 
and  political  life.  Sorrow  renders  the  heart  more  tender 
and  receptive,  and  there  were  long  and  vacant  days  to  be 
beguiled.  His  mother,  who  had  inherited  the  thrifty  traits 
of  her  Dutch  ancestry,  availed  herself  of  this  opportunity  to 
secure  an  alliance  which  worldly  wisdom  would  commend, 
inasmuch  as  the  young  lady  in  question  was  the  heiress  of 
property  which  would  double  the  large  wealth  of  her  son,  and 
thus,  of  course,  double  his  happiness.  Their  mutual  acres 
were  so  situated  that  they  could  be  joined  together  with 
great  advantage.  Whether  the  moral  and  mental  qualities 
of  the  parties  themselves  were  equally  adapted  to  union,  was 
not  considered,  and  indeed  seldom  is,  by  your  sagacious 
match-maker,  who  to  the  end  of  time  will  be  filled  with 
self-congratulation  on  having  united  estates.     That  two  poor 


FOR    WORSE." 


35 


souls  must  henceforth  dwell  in  purgatorial  fires  of  discord, 
or  become  polished  icicles  under  the  steady  frost  of  indiffer- 
ence, is  a  mere  matter  of  sentiment.  Two  acres  instead  oi 
one  is  a  solid  consideration,  and  ought  to  satisfy  any 
heart. 

Mrs.  Saville  loved  her  son  after  her  fashion,  and  was 
serving  him,  as  she  supposed,  in  the  best  and  most  enduring 
manner.  She  was  aware  that  society  would  regard  the 
match  as  brilliant  ;  and  to  have  the  world  nod  approval  was 
as  great  a  thing  a  hundred  years  ago  as  to-day.  She  had 
met  the  parents,  the  uncles,  and  aunts  of  the  coveted  neiress, 
in  solemn  conclave  on  the  subject,  and  ^ound  them  quite  as 
ready  to  enter  into  the  arrangement  as  herself.  With  many 
fine  speeches  they  disguised  the"  property  considerations 
uppermost  in  each  mind,  and  it  was  agreed  that  the  young 
lady's  disposition  should  be  delicately  inclined  to  assist. 
That  willful  factor  in  the  problem,  however,  bluntly  said, 
"  I'll  wait  and  see  him  first. " 

This  very  natural  decision  disturbed  Mrs.  Saville  but 
little  ;  for  she  knew  that  unless  her  son  had  changed  greatly, 
his  appearance  would  be  in  his  favor.  He'-  chief  ground  of 
anxiety  was  the  action  of  the  young  man  himself. 

"  Men  are  so  unreasonable,"  she  said  ;  "  but  unless 
Theron  is  utterly  blind  to  his  own  interests,  he  must  see 
things  as  we  do.  The  young  lady  I  have  chosen  for  him  is 
rich,  handsome,  and  of  one  of  the  first  families  in  the 
colony.     Indeed  her  relatives  in  England  are  titled." 

All  this  was  true.  Mrs,  Saville  had  weighed  externals 
carefully.  Julia  Ashburton  was  very  handsome  after  her 
type  and  style.  The  prudent  mother  had  considered  every- 
thing save  the  viewless,  subtle  spirit  which  dwelt  within  the 
beauty,  and  which  would  prove,  to  the  sorrow  of  all  con- 
cerned, the  spirit  of  a  Tartar. 

Verily  Saville  was  utterly  blind  to  his  own  interests  ;  for, 


36  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

soon  after  his  return,  he  delighted  his  mother  and  the  other 
schemers  by  action  that  accorded  with  their  plans. 

Miss  Ashburton  was  eminently  gifted  with  the  power  to 
awaken  passion  ;  and  in  one  who,  like  Theron  Saville,  saw 
everything  through  the  transfiguring  haze  of  his  own  fancy, 
she  could  even  inspire  an  approach  to  love.  But  a  man 
who  desired  a  wife,  a  home,  and  domestic  peace,  would 
look  askance  at  her.  Her  black  eyes  were  too  near  together, 
and  emitted  scintillations  rather  than  the  pure,  steady  light 
of  a  womanly  nature.  They  could  fascinate  and  beguile 
with  something  of  a  serpent's  power,  bat  they  would  drop 
abashed  before  the  searching  gaze  of  an  honest  man.  Her 
forehead  was  none  too  low,  but  it  was  narrow.  The  de- 
velopment of  her  lower  face  was  full  ;  not  too  much  so, 
l^rhaps,  for  sensuous  beauty,  but  to  a  close  observer  it 
would  suggest  the  trait  of  stubbornness,  and  the  possibility 
that  passion  might  triumph  over  all  restraint  But  it  was 
the  perfection  of  her  form — which  she  was  not  at  all  chary 
in  displaying — and  her  grace  of  carriage,  which  constituted 
her  chief  attractions.  She  was  as  lithe  and  supple  as  a 
Jeopard,  as  well  as  feline  in  many  of  her  qualities. 

But  Saville  glorified  her  into  ideal  womanhood,  and  she 
for  a  time  fostered  his  delusion.  Having  seen  the  hand- 
some young  stranger,  who  possessed  all  the  courtly  bearing 
and  polish  that  could  be  acquired  in  French  salons,  she 
readily  joined  in  the  family  conspiracy.  She  was  as  gentle 
and  sympathetic  as  it  was  in  her  nature  to  be,  and  gave  him 
most  of  her  time.  A  spirit  less  exuberant  than  Saville' s 
would  have  had  a  vague  sense  of  dissatisfaction — a  con- 
sciousness of  something  wanting  in  both  her  words  and 
manner  ;  but  his  heart,  generous  to  a  fault,  was  deeply 
touched  by  her  show  of  regard  for  his  recent  bereavement, 
and  his  love  for  her  was  mingled  with  gratitude.  Soon  she 
mw  him  a  captive  at  her  feet,  and  could  make  her  own  terms. 


"FOR    WORSE.**  37 

During  the  long  hours  spent  together,  he,  hoping  to  find 

a  sympathetic  and  congenial  spirit,  had  often  enlarged  (to 
her  horror)  on  his  favorite  dreams  of  broad,  democratic  lib- 
erty and  equality.  He  even  permitted  her  to  see  his  bitter 
hostility  to  everything  that  bore  the  name  of  religion,  or 
superstition,  as  he  vi'ould  characterize  it,  and  he  regarded  all 
forms  of  faith  as  the  chosen  instruments  of  tyranny.  He 
believed  that  he  could  soon  kindle  in  her  an  enthusiasm 
equal  to  his  own  for  the  new  and  glorious  ideas  that  he  had 
acquired  abroad,  and  for  the  reception  of  which,  he  imag- 
ined, events  were  rapidly  preparing  America. 

Now,  Miss  Ashburton  was,  by  nature  and  education,  as 
hostile  to  these  ideas  as  it  was  possible  for  any  one  to  be. 
She  was  a  Tory  and  royalist  to  her  heart's  core,  as  were  all 
her  family  ;  and  their  descent  from  a  titled  house  in  Eng- 
land was  the  cherished  source  of  their  abounding  pride. 

The  girl  to  whom  Saville  often  discoursed  of  his  Utopian 
dreams,  in  a  manner  so  rapt  and  pre  occupied  that  he 
scarcely  noted  her  effort  to  disguise  her  apathy  and  distaste, 
was  not  capable  of  enthusiasm  for  anything  save  herself. 
Selfishness,  the  bane  of  all  character,  especially  of  woman's, 
had  consumed  the  kindly  endowments  of  her  nature,  and 
sometimes,  when  her  lover's  face  was  flushed  in  the  excite' 
ment  of  his  own  thronging  thoughts,  which  were  at  least 
large  and  generous,  if  mainly  erratic,  there  would  come  a 
crafty,  and  even  vindictive,  gleam  into  her  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  say,  '*  I  will  endure  with  such  patience  as  I  can, 
until  the  uniting  links  in  the  chain  are  forged,  and  then  you 
must  listen  to  me." 

If,  at  times,  her  manner  chilled  him,  and  he  imagmed 
her  lacking  in  sympathy,  he  consoled  himself  by  the  thought 
that  she  did  not  yet  understand  these  great  themes,  and  that 
he  could  not  expect  her  to  reach  in  a  few  weeks  the  ad- 
vanced views,  which,  in  his  case,  had  required  years,  and 


38  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

that,  too,  where  they  formed  the  poUtical  and  social  atmos- 
phere in  which  men  Hved. 

As  for  Miss  Ashburton,  she  soon  perceived  what  she  re- 
garded the  weak  point  in  his  character  -the  one  that  would 
give  her  the  advantage  in  the  inevitable  conflict  that  must 
come  after  marriage  ;  and  that  was  his  loyalty  to  his  word 
— a  scrupulous,  generous,  though  perverted  sense  of  honor. 
He  was  a  true  gentleman,  after  the  fashionable  French  ideal, 
and  not  according  to  the  French  reality.  It  was  a  sad  fact, 
that  in  that  debauched  and  chaotic  age,  the  ninth  command- 
ment, and,  indeed,  every  other  in  the  Decalogue,  rested  as 
lightly  on  the  French  conscience  as  the  seventh.  Of  course 
there  were  many  honorable  exceptions,  and  to  these  Saville 
belonged. 

Therefore,  when  in  due  time  he  poured  out  his  passion, 
she  was  full  of  demure  hesitancy  and  doubt.  ' '  Would  he 
be  faithful  to  her?"  she  asked.  "  He  had  lived  too  long 
in  Paris,  where  men's  eyes  and  fancies  were  given  too  great 
freedom.  He  believed  in  such  new  and  strange  French 
doctrines,  which  seemed  to  unsettle  everything,  even  religion, 
and  was  captivated  by  French  ideas  in  general.  How  could 
she  be  sure  that  she  had  secured  a  steady,  loyal  English 
husband?" 

In  view  of  Saville's  theories  and  rhapsodies  she  might 
perhaps  have  urged  these  objections  wdth  some  reason. 
But  the  astute  maiden  had  no  fears  on  these  grounds.  She 
was  skillfully  playing  part  of  a  pre-arranged  game.  She 
would  bind  him  by  many  and  varied  pledges.  She  would 
keep  him  from  the  course  on  which  his  heart  was  bent,  by 
promises  that  now  seemed  silken  cords  of  love  and  loyalty, 
but  would  afterward  prove  galling  fetters  by  which  she  would 
hold  him  captive  under  a  merciless  tyranny. 

Unsuspicious  of  her  object,  he  gave  her  pledges  innumer- 
able, which  could  readily  be  made  to  bear  the  meaning  she 


''FOR    WORSE.'*  39 

designed,  but  which  in  his  mind  had  no  such  purport 
Having  ensnared  and  woven  a  web  around  her  victim,  she 
gracefully  permitted  herself  to  be  won. 

It  was  a  rude  awakening  that  Saville  had  from  his  delirium 
of  love,  and  dream  of  inspiring  sympathy  in  his  career  as  an 
apostle  of  the  broadest  liberty,  wherein  all  kings,  human 
and  divine,  were  to  be  overthrown.  His  wife  had  been 
under  restraint  too  long  already  for  one  of  her  willful,  self- 
pleasing  nature,  and  she  threw  off  the  mask  with  unseemly 
haste.  To  his  dismay  he  found  that  he  had  married  a  pretty 
bigot,  who  would  not  hear  a  word  against  church  or  stat^ 
the  venerable  abuses  of  which  were  even  dearer  to  her  than 
their  excellencies.  Nay,  more,  she  told  him  that  by  all  his 
oaths  of  loyalty  to  her  he  was  bound  to  the  Tory  side,  which 
was  then  rapidly  becoming  defined  in  distinction  from  the 
Whig,  or  patriot  party  ;  and  such  was  the  ingenuity  of  her 
feminine  tact,  that  in  his  bewilderment  he  half  feared  that 
she  was  right  ;  and  that  he,  like  the  Hebrew  slaves,  would  be 
compelled  to  build  the  structures  he  would  gladly  tear  down. 

At  first,  he  chafed  like  a  lion  in  the  toils  ;  but  on  every 
side  she  met  him  with  the  meshes  of  his  own  unwary  prom- 
ises. In  vain  he  protested  that  loyalty  to  her  did  not  involve 
loyalty  to  institutions  that  he  hated. 

"  I  am  identified  with  these  causes,"  she  would  coolly 
reply. 

By  this  chain  of  loyalty  to  her,  she  would  even  drag  him 
to  church,  and  made  religion  seem  ten-fold  more  hateful  by 
the  farce  she  there  enacted.  His  eyes  were  now  opened, 
and  he  readily  saw  that  she  was  a  bigot  to  the  forms  c^ 
worship,  and  that  the  doctrines  of  her  church  were  neither 
understood  nor  considered.  Her  spirit  was  that  of  the 
Italian  bandit,  who  will  shed  his  own  blood  to  carry  out  the 
purposes  of  his  priest,  and  the  blood  of  any  one  else  that 
his  interest  or  revenge  may  require. 
Roe— YIII— C 


40  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

Thus  the  wretched  months  dragged  on,  and  Saville  was  a 
moody  captive.  As  the  stirring  events  thickened  which  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  overt  acts  of  the  Revolution,  he  was 
often  greatly  excited,  and  inclined  to  break  his  fetters  ;  but 
he  was  ever  confronted  by  a  will  more  resolute  than  his  own. 

"To  whom  do  you  owe  the  more  sacred  duty,"  shr 
would  ask  ;  "  this  wretched  cabal  of  blatant  rebels  who  wiU 
find  halters  around  their  necks  if  they  go  much  further,  or 
your  wife  to  whom  you  have  pledged  your  honor  ?" 

His  young  friends  in  the  patriot  ranks  were  greatly  dis- 
appointed in  him.  Before  marriage,  his  utterances  had 
been  pronounced  and  radical ;  now  he  was  silent  and  kept 
himself  aloof. 

There  were  many  sneers  about  the  "  apron-strings  of  a 
Tory  wife,"  and  the  "  difference  between  large  swelling 
words  and  the  giving  and  taking  of  honest  blows."  Some 
of  these  flings  reached  Saville,  and  stung  him  almost  to 
frenzy. 

Of  course  anything  like  love  or  even  passion  died  out 
between  these  two,  whom  relatives  had  so  complacently 
matched,  but  who  never  could  be  mated. 

At  first,  Saville  often  appealed  to  her,  earnestly  and  even 
passionately,  to  be  a  wife  in  reality,  and  not  to  thwart  every 
hope  and  aspiration  of  his  life. 

She  would  exasperate  him  by  coolly  replying,  "Only  as 
I  check  and  thwart  your  wild  fancies  and  mad  action  can 
I  be  a  true  wife.  Can't  you  see  that  you  are  bent  on  ruin- 
ing us  both  ?  Your  mind  is  full  of  monstrous  innovations. 
It  is  as  if  you  should  say  in  the  dead  of  winter,  I  have  a 
vague  plan  of  a  better  home  than  this.  Let  me  tear  down 
our  house,  and  I  will  build  something  different.  Not  while 
I  keep  my  senses.  What  would  our  property  be  worth 
under  the  '  nouvelle  ordre '  as  you  call  it  ?" 

'*  But,  madam,  you  do  not  consider  me  ai  ail,  but  only 


*' FOR    WORSE."  41 

ihe  property.  Am  I  to  have  no  other  career  than  that  of  a 
steward  of  our  joint  estates  ?" 

"  That  is  better  than  a  rebel's  halter.  But  let  us  end 
this  useless  discussion.  You  are  a  man  of  honor,  and  your 
word  is  pledged. " 

The  tidings  of  the  battle  of  Lexington  almost  brought 
things  to  a  crisis,  and  resulted  in  a  stormy  scene  between 
husband  and  wife.  His  passion  and  invective  were  so  ter- 
rible as  to  alarm  even  her  for  a  time.  And  yet  it  only 
served  to  intensify  the  settled  obstinacy  of  her  nature.  It 
also  greatly  increased  a  growing  dislike  for  him,  which 
needed  only  time  to  develop  into  hatred. 

At  the  close  of  this  memorable  interviev/,  she  sa'd  harshly 

"  I  have  endured  this  folly  long  enough.  You  must 
either  give  up  this  madness  wholly  and  utterly,  or  else 
trample  upon  your  honor  and  duty,  and  proclaim  yourself 
&  perjured  villain.  The  day  you  join  the  rebel  crew,  you 
desert  your  wife  ;  and  I  will  never  so  much  as  touch  your 
hand  again." 

"  Do  you  mean  that?"  he  asked  hoarsely. 

"  The  God  you  dare  to  despise  is  my  witness.     I  do." 

"  Pitiful  are  the  gods  which  attract  such  worshipers,"  he 
sneered,  and  turning  on  his  heel,  he  left  her. 

He  now  saw  that  the  crisis  had  indeed  come.  He  had 
learned  to  know  his  wife  sufficiendy  well  to  be  aware  that 
neither  appeals  nor  circumstances  could  change  her  views 
and  actions.  She  formed  her  opinions  and  purposes  solely 
on  the  grounds  of  her  own  prejudices  and  wishes  ;  and  a 
nature  without  generous  impulses  made  her  coldly  obstinate 
in  their  maintenance. 

And  now  what  should  he  do?  The  epithet  "  perjured 
villain  '  *  stood  in  the  path  to  patriotic  action,  like  a  grislj 
spectre,  for  perjured  he  knew  that  she  would  make  him 
appear  to  her  family. 


4*  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

If  his  own  interests  only  were  involved,  he  would  not 
have  had  a  moment's  hesitancy.  But  was  it  right  to  risk 
his  property  and  life  in  rebellion,  and  perhaps  bring  his 
mother  to  poverty  and  danger  in  her  old  age  ?  For  she, 
too,  by  many  an  eloquent  appeal  assured  him  that  he  would 
be  false  to  the  sacred  duties  which  he  owed  her  in  her 
widowhood  ;  and  by  the  whole  force  of  the  filial  bond, 
sought  to  chain  his  generous  nature  to  inaction.  He  was 
thus  torn  by  contending  emotions,  and  tortured  by  conflict- 
mg  claims.  His  cheeks  grew  wan,  and  his  face  haggard,  in 
as  cruel  a  captivity  as  ever  man  endured.  But  both  mother 
and  wife  looked  on  unsympathetically.  They  were  in  the 
most  aggravating  condition  of  mind  toward  the  sufferer, 
complacently  sure  that  they  were  right  and  he  wrong  ;  that 
they  were  acting  for  his  best  good,  and  that  he,  like  a  rash, 
foolish  child,  must  be  held  in  steady  restraint  until  he 
should  pass  beyond  the  folly  of  his  youth.  Their  treatment 
was  as  humiliating  as  it  was  galling. 

And  yet  he  did  not  know  what  was  right,  for  he  had  no 
true  moral  standard.  He  had  cast  away  that  book  of  divine 
ethics,  which  clearly  defines  the  relative  force  of  each  claim 
upon  the  conscience,  and  which,  in  an  emergency  like  this, 
calmly  lifts  a  man  up  to  the  sacrifice  of  himself  and  every 
earthly  tie,  that  God  may  be  honored,  and  humanity  at 
large  served. 

But,  in  his  creed,  as  we  have  seen,  man  was  his  own  law  ; 
and  while  his  heart  said,  "  Join  the  cause  of  freedom,"  a 
perverted  sense  of  honor  said,  "  No,  your  word  has  made 
you  the  slave  of  your  wife's  bigotry,  and  your  mother's 
fears. ' ' 

In  vain  he  appealed  to  his  mother,  telling  her  how  patri- 
otic ladies  in  the  city  were  urging  their  sons  to  heroic 
action,  and  teaching  even  their  little  children  the  alphabet 
of  liberty-     She  would  oal.v  weep-  and  nrophesy  dismally. 


"FOR    WORSE.^  43 

*'  When  these  mothers  see  their  sons  brought  home 
mangled  corpses,  and  their  pleasant  homes  burned,  and 
their  children  turned  adrift  upon  the  heartless  world,  they 
will  shed  tears  of  blood  over  their  folly.  I  love  you  too 
well  to  permit  you  to  rush  to  your  own  destruction  as  truly 
as  to  mine." 

She  always  assumed  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him 
to  go  without  her  permission. 

His  bitter  reply  at  last  became,  "  Your  love  will  be  my 
death  by  slow  torture." 

"Nonsense,  my  child,"  the  old  lady  answered,  almost 
petulantly.  "  You  will  soon  see  the  day  when  you  will 
thank  me  from  the  bottom  of  your  heart  for  having  kept 
you  out  of  this  wretched  broil,  which  will  rain  all  who 
engage  in  it " 

Thus  there  was  not  even  sympathy  for  him  at  home,  but 
«sly  a  riveting  of  the  fetters  which  v/ere  eating  into  his  very 
soul.  So  he  came  to  indulge  in  long  and  lonely  espedi- 
tions,  by  which  he  sought  to  escape,  in  some  degree,  the 
painful  couditicns  of  his  city  life. 


^EAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 


CHAPTER  V. 
Washington's  sermon. 

THE  explanatory  digression  of  the  two  previous  chapters 
left  Saville  returning  from  one  of  these  flights  from  the 
tormenting  difficulties  of  his  position.  In  due  time  he 
approached  his  native  city,  passing  for  miles  along  rugged 
and  heavily  wooded  shores,  that  now  are  occupied  by 
spacious  ware-houses,  and  wharves  crowded  with  the  com- 
merce of  the  world. 

By  the  time  he  reached  a  point  opposite  where  Canal 
Street  now  ends  at  the  North  River,  his  attention  was  drawn 
to  a  large  flotilla,  just  leaving  the  Jersey  shore.  Remem- 
bering that  it  was  Sunday  afternoon,  he  was  still  more  sur- 
prised to  find  that  on  grounds  adjoining  his  own  estate,  near 
the  foot  of  Murray  Street  of  our  day,  an  immense  concourse 
of  people  were  assembled.  His  boat  soon  reached  his 
private  quay,  where  he  found  his  body-servant,  who  had 
come  down  to  the  shore,  with  thousands  of  others,  to  wit- 
ness some  great  event. 

His  master's  face  was  sufficient  interrogation  to  garrulous 
Larry,  and  he  at  once  launched  forth. 

"  Glad  ter  see  yer  honor.  Yer  jist  in  time.  Faix,  sure, 
there's  great  doin's  on  foot.  The  rebels,  as  yer  leddy  calls 
'em,  are  gittin'  bold  as  lions,  an'  will  eat  us  up  if  we  don't 
jine  the  bastes.      I'm  half  a  mind  to  turn  rebel  meself." 

"  Stop  your  nonsense,  Larry.  Who  are  those  coming 
yonder  across  the  river,  and  what  does  this  concourse 
aiean  V ' 


WASHINGTON'S  SERMON.  45 

**  It  manes  more  than  I  can  tell  ye  in  a  breath,  yer 
honor.  But  that's  Gin'ral  Washington  himself  that's  a 
comin'  there,  and  the  rebels  have  knocked  bloody  blazes 
out  of  the  red-coats  in  Bosting." 

These  tidings  were  sufficient  to  arouse  Saville's  ardent 
spirit  to  the  highest  pitch  of  excitement.  Mingling  with 
the  throng  at  the  spot  near  which  the  disembarkation  must 
occur,  he  met  an  acquaintance  from  whom  he  obtained  a 
more  satisfactory,  if  not  succinct,  explanation  of  what  he  saw. 

The  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  had  been  fought,  and  behind 
a  slight  breast-work  constructed  by  a  few  hours'  labor,  his 
countrymen  had  m.et  and  thrice  repulsed  the  veterans  of 
Europe.  In  the  torrent  of  blood  which  flowed  that  day, 
the  Revolution  had  become  a  fact  to  which  men  could  close 
their  eyes  no  longer.  The  time  had  arrived  when  all  must 
take  sides  ;  and  Saville  recognized  the  truth  that  he  must 
now  choose  with  which  party  he  would  cast  his  lot.  He 
was  in  an  agony  of  conflicting  feelings,  and  hoped  that 
something  in  the  stirring  events  of  the  hour  might  settle  the 
question  which  he  felt  scarcely  able  to  decide  himself. 

He  gained  a  standing-place  upon  a  projecting  rock  on  the 
beach,  from  which  he  had  a  good  view  both  of  the  crowded 
shore  and  the  approaching  flotilla,  and  his  enthusiastic 
nature  kindled  momentarily  as  he  gazed  on  the  scene. 

It  was  a  lovely  summer  afternoon.  The  sun  shone  bright 
but  not  too  warm,  and  gave  a  touch  of  beauty  and  light- 
someness  even  to  things  prosaic  and  commonplace  in  them- 
selves. But  there  was  little  that  was  ordinary  on  this  occa- 
sion. There,  facing  him  on  a  sloping  bank,  was  such  a 
throng  of  his  fellow  townsmen  as  he  had  never  before  seen 
together,  their  faces  aflame  with  excitement.  Near  him 
were  drawn  up  in  martial  array  a  thousand  men  with  glitter- 
ing accoutrements,  and  bayonets  whose  points  the  declining 
sun  tipped  with  fire. 


40  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART. 

When  the  boats  approached  the  land,  even  the  heavy 
booming  of  the  cannon  was  drowned  by  that  most  awe- 
inspiring  sound  of  earth — the  shout  of  a  multitude,  wherein 
the  thought,  the  intense  feeling  and  resolute  purpose  of  the 
soul  finds  loud,  vehement  utterance.  It  is  a  sound  that 
stirs  the  most  sluggish  nature.  How  then  would  the  spirit 
of  one  be  moved  who,  like  Theron  Saville,  believed  that  the 
voice  of  the  people  was  the  voice  of  God  ?  He  did  not 
shout  with  the  others.  His  excitement  was  too  deep  for 
noisy  vent,  but  his  face  grew  stern,  and  his  lips  compressed 
with  his  forming  purpose.  He  was  growing  desperate,  and 
was  passing  into  a  mood  in  which  he  was  ready  to  trample 
every  tie  and  extorted  pledge  under  foot  that  he  might  join 
what  he  believed  would  prove  a  crasade  against  all  tyrants, 
temporal  and  spiritual. 

But  his  chief  desire  now  was  to  look  into  the  face  of  Wash- 
ington, of  whom  he  had  heard  so  often,  and  who  had  even 
now  gained  much  of  that  remarkable  influence  which  he 
was  destined  to  possess  over  the  young  men  of  the  country. 
His  rural  and  hunting  tastes,  his  romantic,  military  experi- 
ence on  the  frontier,  and  his  reputation  for  the  most  daring 
courage,  had  already  made  him  a  hero  in  a  new  country 
where  such  qualities  would  be  most  appreciated.  But  to 
Saville,  he  was  more  than  a  hero,  more  than  a  patriot  and 
chivalrous  soldier  :  he  was  a  forerunner  and  inaugurator  o! 
the  golden  age  of  liberty  and  equality,  which  his  fancy  por- 
trayed in  the  near  future.  Groaning  himself  under  the 
thraldom  of  the  old  and  hated  regime,  he  regarded  the  com- 
ing commander-in-chief  as  a  captive  in  hard  bondage  might 
welcome  a  deliverer.  He  expected  to  see  a  face  that  was  a 
revolution  in  itself,  eager,  fiery,  kindling  others  into  flame 
by  its  intense  expression. 

But,  when  a  tall  and  stately  man  in  the  prow  of  the  fore- 
most batteau  uncovered,  as  he  drew  near  the  shore,  in  ac- 


WASHINGTOir^   SERMON.  47 

knowledgment  of  the  resounding  acclamations,  he  was  at 
first  disappointed.  He  was  not  looking  on  the  bold,  defiant 
features  of  an  innovator.  There  was  scarcely  a  trace  even 
on  that  calm,  noble  face,  of  the  enthusiasm  that  was  burn- 
ing like  a  flame  in  his  own  heart. 

Wherein  lay  the  man's  greatness  and  power.?  In  his 
eagerness  to  see  more  nearly  the  one  he  now  felt  would 
largely  shape  his  own  destiny,  as  well  as  that  of  others,  he 
sprang  down  the  rock,  and  unconsciously  stood  in  the 
shallow  water.  Washington  noted  his  eager  action,  and 
turned  his  face  full  upon  him  with  a  kindly  look  and  half- 
inclination,  while  Saville  removed  his  hat  at  once. 

As  Washington  again  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  waiting  thou- 
sands, the  young  man  scanned  his  face  as  if  he  would  there 
read  his  own  fate.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  larger  wealth 
and  higher  social  position  than  himself,  and  yet  he  had 
joined  his  fortunes  to  a  cause  which  Saville' s  relatives  char- 
acterized as  both  desperate  and  disreputable.  Here  was 
the  man  toward  whom  the  national  heart  instinctively  turned, 
and  hailed  as  leader  and  chief.  As  Washington  looked  to 
God  for  guidance  and  help,  Saville  looked  solely  to  man, 
and  as  we  have  said  before,  with  all  the  eagerness  which  the 
hope  of  his  own  deliverance  and  the  realization  of  his  dreams 
could  inspire,  he  scrutinized  the  face  before  him  to  gather 
if  this  were  the  coming  man  of  the  nouvelle  ordre. 

He  did  not  see  what  he  expected — the  embodied  prin- 
ciples of  the  French  iconoclasts  and  reckless  innovators,  but 
the  native  quickness  of  bis  race  enabled  him  to  apprehend 
the  spirit  which  animated  Washington,  and  which  found 
expression  in  his  honest  face.  There  was  no  elation,  no 
appearance  of  gratified  pride,  which  such  a  reception  would 
bave  evoked,  had  the  elements  of  personal  vanity  existed 
largely  in  his  nature.  There  was  an  absence  of  all  com- 
placent self-confidence  and  self-assertion,  and  yet  he  inspired 


48  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

confidence,  and  more — something  of  his  own  heroic  and 
patient  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  in  behalf  of  a  sacred  cause. 
His  face  wore  the  solemn  aspect  of  one  who  felt  himself 
charged  with  awful  responsibilities.  As  he  saw  the  thou- 
sands turning  toward  him  in  hope  and  trust,  the  burden  of 
the  nation's  weal  pressed  heavier  upon  him.  And  yet  there 
was  not  a  trace  of  weakness  or  shrinking  in  view  of  his 
mighty  tasks.  His  face  had  the  calm,  strong  expression  of 
ctie  who  had  counted  the  cost,  who  was  wholly  consecrated, 
and  who,  without  a  thought  of  self,  proposed  to  serve  a 
cause  in  which  he  fully  believed,  leaving  to  God  the  issue. 
Like  the  ancient  Hebrew  leader  who  climbed  Sinai's  height 
to  the  presence  of  God,  he  also  had  been  prepared  above 
the  clouds  to  lead  the  people  who  tarried  on  the  plain 
below. 

Though  Saville  could  not  understand  the  source  of  Wash- 
ington's strength,  still  the  calm,  noble  face  quieted  him. 
Half  unconsciously  he  was  taught  the  difference  between 
mere  enthusiasm  and  personal  ambition,  and  a  resolute 
purpose  combined  with  unselfish  devotion.  He  v/as  gener- 
ous and  noble  enough  himself  to  appreciate  the  heroic  qual- 
ities embodied  before  him,  and  to  be  won  to  something  of 
the  same  spirit  for  the  time  being.  Washington's  appear- 
ance and  character  reconciled  Saville' s  heart  and  conscience, 
which  had  long  been  at  variance,  and  made  him  fee!  with 
the  certainty  of  intuition,  that  the  cause  which  had  won 
such  a  man  was  so  sacred,  that  he  could  be  true  to  it,  and 
at  the  same  time  true  to  every  duty  he  owed  his  wife  and 
mother. 

There  are  times  when  the  mind,  thoroughly  aroused, 
works  with  marvelous  rapidity  ;  and  the  few  moments  that 
Intervened  between  the  near  approach  and  disembarking, 
gave  that  face,  toward  which  so  many  were  turning  for 
Inspiration,  time  to  preach  Saville  the  only  sermon  which 


WASHINGTON'S  SERMON.  4f 

he  had  ever  heeded.  The  most  effective  sermons,  after  all, 
are  those  which  are  embodied.  The  Word  of  God  ^a^;  a 
living  person — a  Divine  Man. 

He  who  had  been  harassed  so  long  by  conflicting  claims, 
hesitated  no  longer.  With  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  man  that, 
in  his  humanitarian  creed,  he  was  ready  to  worship,  he  said 
in  the  low,  deep  tone  of  resolve — 

"  His  cause  is  mine  from  this  hour  forth.  Liberty, 
equality,  or  death." 

Washington  had  landed,  and  Saville  was  possessed  with  a 
desire  to  hear  him  speak,  and  so  pressed  toward  him  with 
many  others.  General  Schuyler,  who  stood  at  his  chief's 
side,  had  noticed  the  eager  and  interested  air  of  the  young 
man.  He  knew  Saville  slightly,  and  the  thought  occurred 
to  him  that  it  might  '^  a  good  opportunity  to  secure  the 
adherence  of  one  who  had  thus  far  stood  aloof,  but  whose 
wealth  and  talents  would  be  a  welcome  addition  to  the 
cause.  He  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to  Washington,  and  then 
Stepping  up  to  Saville,  said, 

*'  Let  me  present  you  to  his  Excellency,  with  others  of 
your  fellow-citizens." 

Before  Saville  could  realize  it,  the  man  he  adored  had 
taken  him  by  the  hand,  saying, 

"  Mr.  Saville,  I  hope  you  are  with  us  in  this  good 
cause." 

With  deep  emotion,  Saville  replied, 

"  I  am  with  you  in  any  service — the  humblest — which 
your  Excellency  may  require." 

"  Rest  assured,"  said  Washington,  kindly,  "  that  it  will 
be  honorable  service,  for  which  your  countr}'  will  reward 
you." 

The  young  man  stepped  back,  more  proud  and  pleased 
than  if  he  had  been  decorated  by  all  the  sovereigns  of 
Europe. 


50  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

The  procession  was  now  commencing  to  form.  Saville 
pushed  his  way  out  of  the  throng  to  where  Larry  was  gaping 
at  the  strange  sights,  and  called, 

"  Bring  me  my  horse,  saddled,  within  five  minutes." 

"  Och,  by  the  holy  poker,"  gasped  Larry,  as  he  ran  to 
obey  the  order,  ' '  the  maister  is  a  goin'  to  turn  rebel.  Thin 
I'll  be  a  rebel,  too  ;  for  there's  nary  a  man  of  'em  all  that 
can  fight  ould  England  wid  a  better  stomach  than  mesell 
Didn't  she  take  the  last  praty  out  of  me  bin  at  home  ?" 

A  little  later,  Saville,  mounted  on  his  favorite  horse,  took 
a  flying  leap  over  his  garden  wall,  and  Joined  the  cavalcade 
of  leading  citizens  who  were  to  escort  the  Commander-in- 
chief  down  Broadway  ;  while  Larry  followed  with  the  popu» 
lace  on  foot,  chaffing  right  and  left  to  the  amusement  of 
many  listeners. 

At  length  the  pageantry  was  over,  and  in  the  purple  twi- 
light Saville  sought  his  home.  Everything  in  nature  that 
Sabbath  evening  breathed  of  peace  and  tenderness,  but  he 
justly  feared  that  a  scene  of  bitter  and  unrelenting  hostility 
was  awaiting  him.  The  coming  battles  in  which  he  would 
take  part,  would  never  require  the  nerve  and  relf-contro! 
that  he  must  maintain  this  quiet  June  evening,  and  m  his 
own  home. 

In  his  exalted  and  generous  mood,  he  determined  to 
make  one  more  appeal  before  the  final  separation  with  his 
wife  took  place.  But  meeting  her  on  the  piazza,  he  saw  by 
a  glance  that  it  would  be  a  vain  and  humiliating  waste  of 
words. 

Her  features  were  inflamed  with  passion,  and  upon  her 
full  lower  face  rested  the  very  impress  of  willful  stubborn- 
ness. She  had  evidently  heard  of  his  action  during  the 
afternoon,  and  surmised  the  result.  Having  never  been 
thwarted  in  her  life,  she  now  hated  the  man  whose  course 
and  motives  were  so  utterly  repugnant  to  her. 


WASHINGTON'S  SERMON.  5? 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  dressed  for  walking,  and,  not 

waiting  for  him  to  speak,  said  harshly  : 

"  Well,  sir,  in  a  word,  what  is  your  decision  r' 

"  I  have  decided  that  I  am  a  free  man  and  a  patriot " 

'*  A  rebel  and  a  perjurer,  you  mean." 

"  That  is  your  unjust  version,  madam,"  he  repliec 
quietly,  for  Washington's  calm,  strong  face  was  before 
him. 

Her  features  grew  fairly  livid,  but  she  was  about  to  pass 
out  without  a  word. 

"Julia!"  he  exclaimed,  intercepting  her,  "listen  for 
one  moment  before  you  take  this  rash,  irrevocable  step. 
If  I  am  true  to  the  sacred  cause  of  Liberty,  I  can  be  true 
to  you,     I " 

"  Stand  aside  !"  she  cried,  imperiously  stamping  hef 
foot  "  I  will  not  hear  one  word  of  your  idiotic  drivel 
The  idea  of  you  being  true  to  anything,  who  break  pledges 
made  at  God's  altar,  and  cast  off  your  wife  to  join  a  herd 
of  ragged,  blaspheming  rebels  ;  I  shall  never  darken  your 
doors  again." 

"  Well  chosen  phrase,  madam.  You  have  indeed  dark- 
ened my  door,  and  darkened  my  life.  But  farewell  :  I  will 
not  reproach  you.  I  will  be  loyal  to  the  name  of  wife  : 
the  reality  I  never  had." 

She  deigned  no  reply,  but  passed  down  the  path  that  led 
to  the  adjoining  residence  of  her  parents,  with  such  hot 
wrath  in  her  heart  that  it  was  strange  the  roses  did  not 
wither  as  she  passed. 

Saville  breathed  more  freely  after  she  was  gone.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  deadly  incubus  had  been  lifted  from  him. 

But  he  soon  found  that  the  meeting  with  his  mother 
would  be  a  far  severer  ordeal.  When  he  entered  her  room, 
and  saw  her,  who  was  usually  so  stately  and  composed, 
Vtterly  broken  down,  rocking  back  and  forth  as  if  in  mortal 


5»  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

agony,  with  her  gray  hair  hanging  in  disorder  over  her  face, 
be  felt  as  if  a  sword  had  pierced  him. 

"  Ruined  !  ruined  !  all  is  lost !"  groaned  the  wretched 
woman. 

"Why  are  we  ruined,"  he  exclaimed  impetuously, 
*'  more  than  thousands  of  families  who  have  joined  the 
patriotic  cause  ?' ' 

"  We  shall  soon  be  homeless  and  penniless." 

"  No,  mother,  not  at  all.  I  shall  have  it  distinctly 
known  that  you  still  adhere  to  the  crown.  I  will  put  all 
the  property  in  your  name,  and  content  myself  with  a 
soldier's  fare." 

"  And  I  shall  then  be  childless  and  alone  in  the  world  !" 
she  continued  in  the  same  despairing  tone. 

"  Oh,  cease,  mother  ;  you  m.ay  break  my  heart,  but  you 
cannot  change  my  purpose.  My  word  is  pledged  to  Wash- 
ington and  Liberty," 

"  It  has  been  pledged  before,"  was  the  reproachful  reply. 

"  No  !"  said  the  young  man  sternly  ;  "do  not  charge 
aoe  with  dishonor.  I  can  endure  that  from  the  woman  to 
whom  the  miserable  hap-hazard  chance  of  this  world  and 
priest-craft  temporarily  joined  me,  but  not  from  you.  I 
never  deliberately  and  consciously  made  a  pledge  against 
my  present  course  ;  and  to-day  I  have  seen  a  man  who  has 
taught  me  how  I  can  be  true  to  you,  and  at  the  same  time 
true  to  Liberty.  You  say,  '  my  child, '  — do  you  not  realize 
that  I  am  a  man,  who  must  be  guided  by  his  own  indepen- 
dent wall  or  be  despised  by  all  ?     I  have  chosen  my  lot" 

With  these  decisive  words,  Saville  retired  to  his  room, 
Aat  he  might  regain  his  calmness  and  form  some  plans  for 
the  future. 

Among  his  first  acts  during  the  next  few  weeks  was  the 
transfer  of  a  large  sum  of  money  to  Paris,  subject  to  his 
own  or  his  mother's  order.     Having  thus  cast  an  anchor  to 


WASHINGTON'S  SERMON.  53 

the  windward,  he  felt  that  he  had  done  much  to  provide 

against  the  vicissitudes  of  that  stormy  period,  and  thus  could 
give  his  thoughts  more  fully  to  the  stirring  work  of  the  hour. 
He  explained  his  situation,  as  far  as  a  scrupulous  delicacy 
would  permit,  to  Captain  Sears,  more  generally  known  by 
the  sobriquet  of  "  K'ng"  Sears,  and  told  this  recognized 
leader  of  the  populace  in  all  daring  revolutionary  acts,  that 
after  the  few  weeks  required  to  settle  his  affairs  and  provide 
for  his  mother,  he  would  be  ready  to  enter  the  regular  ser- 
vice, and  that,  in  the  mean  time,  if  any  enterprise  were  on 
foot,  he  could  be  depended  upon  at  any  moment.  His 
young  Whig  acquaintances  had  no  further  cause  to  complain 
of  his  absence  from  their  councils,  or  of  a  disposition  to 
shrink  from  "  honest  blows"  if  any  were  to  be  received. 
He  found  a  congenial  spirit  in  a  fiery  young  student  of 
King's  College,  whom  his  companions  nick-named  "  the 
Little  Giant,"  but  who  is  now  known  to  the  world  as  Alex- 
ander Hamilton  ;  and  the  two  young  rebels  plotted  treason 
enough,  in  Tory  estimation,  to  satisfy  the  shade  of  Guy 
Fawkes,  and  were  quite  as  ready  to  blow  up  Parliament  and 
all  other  anciently  constituted  authorities. 

Mrs.  Saville's  manner  was  for  a  time  that  of  cold  and 
stony  despair,  and  considering  her  views  and  feelings,  it 
was  more  real  than  assumed.  But  beneath  the  thick  crust 
of  her  worldliness  and  conservatism,  there  was  a  warm, 
motherly  heart,  which  soon  began  to  yearn  toward  her  only 
son,  who,  she  now  feared,  might  any  day  be  lost  to  her  for- 
ever. Her  coldness  soon  gave  place  to  a  clinging  tender- 
ness, which  she  had  never  before  manifested,  and  which 
made  it  a  hundred-fold  harder  for  her  son  to  carry  out  the 
steadfast  purpose  which  the  expression  of  Washington's  face 
had  inspired.  Moreover,  such  are  the  contradictions  of 
'voman's  heart,  she  secretly  admired  her  handsome  son,  in 
his  buff  and  blue  uniform,  and  respected  him  fai  more  than 


54  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

if  he  had  been  content  to  remain  merely  the  steward  of  the 

large  joint  estates  which  her  thrifty  scheming  had  united. 

Both  pride  and  indifference  prevented  Saville  from  making 
advances  toward  his  wife,  and  there  was  nothing  in  her 
nature  that  would  prompt  to  any  relenting.  On  the  con- 
trary, as  her  husband's  outspoken  republicanism  and  skepti- 
cism were  bruited  through  the  city,  her  hatred  grew  more 
intense  and  vind'.ctive.  Not  only  was  his  opposition  to 
church  and  state  most  offensive,  but  the  fact  that  he  could 
break  her  chains  and  ignore  her  existence  was  humiliating, 
and  taught  the  spoiled  beauty,  for  the  first  time,  that  her 
despotic  will  could  be  disregarded.  Nothing  so  exasperates 
some  natures  as  to  be  first  thwarted,  and  then  severely  let 
alone. 

He  scrupulously  re-transferred  her  dov/er  and  every  vestige 
of  property  to  which  she  had  the  slightest  claim  ;  and  she, 
in  impotent  spite,  refused  to  be  known  any  longer  by  his 
name  ;  but  the  irrevocable  marriage  vows  had  been  spoken, 
and  this  past  act  of  folly,  like  a  hidden  rock  had  seemingly 
wrecked  the  happiness  of  both.  They  might  hate  each 
Other,  but  they  were  forbidden  to  love  any  one  else. 


"A    SCENE  AT  BLACK  SAATS."  55 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  A    SCEVE    AT    BLACK    SAM's." 

ON  the  evening  of  the  23d  of  August,  1775,  a  large 
mansion  standing  at  the  comer  of  Broadway  and 
Dock  (now  Pearl)  Street,  appeared  to  be  the  center  of  un- 
usual excitement,  even  at  that  time  of  general  ferment 
The  place  was  well  known  as  the  down -town  tavern  of  Sam- 
uel Fraunces,  who,  from  the  swarthiness  of  his  complexion, 
went  by  the  sobriquet  of  "  Black  Sam."  This  tap-room 
and  restaurant  was  a  general  resort,  not  only  because 
Fraunces  was  the  Delmonico  of  that  day,  and  could  serve  a 
dinner  and  cater  in  wines  better  than  any  other  man  in  the 
city,  but  also  because  Sam's  patriotism  effervesced  as  readily 
as  his  champagne  or  strong  beer  ;  and,  it  may  be  added, 
for  the  reason  that  they  were  often  served  by  his  pretty, 
black-eyed  daughter,  Phctbe  Fraunces.  To  her,  perhaps, 
in  the  foUowmg  year,  Washington  owed  his  life,  since  she 
was  able,  through  the  confidence  given  her  by  a  lover  who 
was  one  of  Washington's  body-guard,  to  penetrate  a  Tory 
plot  to  destroy  the  dread  Commander-in-chief  by  poison. 
True-hearted  Phcebe  was  not  to  be  won  by  a  lover  who  pro- 
posed to  administer  such  jx)tions,  so,  having  smilingly  be- 
guiled from  him  his  secret,  she  furnished  him  with  anothe! 
noose  than  that  of  Hymen's  make,  and  donning  her  bright- 
est petticoat,  went  cheerfully  to  his  hanging. 

But  upon  this  memorable  occasion,  she  was  the  embodi- 
ment of  exuberant  health  and  spirits,  and  seemed  as  spark' 


56  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

ling  as  the  wines  she  brought  to  the  guests  that  thronged 
this  favorite  haunt  of  the  city.  It  was  warm,  and  her  round, 
stout  arms  were  bare,  and  her  swelling  throat  and  bosom 
snowy  white,  while  her  eyes  were  black  as  coals.  But 
while  she  was  coquettish  and  piquant,  there  was  nothing 
pert  or  bold  in  her  manner,  and  he  was  either  drunk  or 
brutish  who  gave  her  a  wanton  word  the  second  time.  In 
her  ready  tongue  she  carried  a  keener  weapon  than  the 
swords  that  dangled  and  clattered  at  the  sides  of  the  incipi- 
ent warriors  on  whom  she  waited  ;  and  when  provoked  she 
gave  thrusts  which  brought  the  hot  blood  at  least  to  their 
faces.  But  while  she  inspired  a  wholesome  respect,  she 
was  generally  bubbling  over  with  good  humor  and  arch  rep- 
artee, and  so  was  a  general  favorite.  Her  mercurial  nature 
readily  caught  the  spirit  of  the  hour,  and  to-night  her  dark 
eyes  were  ablaze  with  excitement,  and  her  white  teeth,  which 
frequent  smiles  displayed,  and  her  white  neck  and  arms, 
gave  to  her  quick  movements  a  glancing,  scintillating  effect 
\s  she  flitted  here  and  there  among  the  noisy  patriots,  many 
ix\  eager  sentence  was  suspended  and  but  lamely  finished, 
as  the  speaker's  eyes  followed  her  admiringly. 

Little  wonder  that  she  was  the  blooming  Hebe  of  this 
bacchanalian  Elysium,  for  the  majority  habitually  craved 
the  boon  of  drinking  to  her  health.  She  would  graciously 
comply,  and  then  chuckle  with  her  father  over  the  coins 
resulting,  when,  at  the  late  hour  (at  that  primitive  time)  of 
ten  at  night,  they  counted  the  gains  of  the  day.  It  is  to 
such  places  that  men  resort  who  appear  to  value  public  and 
purchased  smiles  from  those  who  sell  to  all  alike,  more  than 
similar  glances  from  wives  and  children,  which  they  rarely 
seek  to  win,  and  more  rarely  deserve.  Phoebe  was  not 
above  reaping  this  harvest  from  fools  ;  but  she  did  it  so 
fascinatingly  that  they  felt  well  repaid. 

Black  Sam,    broad  and  swarthy,   stood  behind  his  bar^ 


-A    SCENE  AT  BLACK  SAATS."  57 

controlling  and  directing  his  large  establishment  from  this 
central  point  like  a  captain  on  the  deck  of  his  ship.  His 
eyes  were  a  trifle  duller  than  Phoebe's,  and  indicated  that 
he  indulged  occasionally  in  more  than  the  sips  of  a  con- 
noisseur. But  to-night  they  glanced  rapidly  and  shrewdly 
around,  seeing  that  his  daughter  and  her  assistants  neglected 
no  one  ;  and  he  found  time,  in  the  mean  while,  to  add  a 
word  in  his  heavy  bass  to  the  various  pronounced  political 
discussions  and  utterances  going  on  around  him.  It  was 
very  evident  that  Sam  and  his  patrons  had  little  reverence 
for  the  "  divinity  which  doth  hedge  a  king,"  and  these 
quasi  subjects  of  George  III.  spoke  of  him  with  a  refreshing 
candor  which  it  would  have  been  well  for  him  to  have  heard, 
for  it  might  have  saved  a  world  of  trouble.  It  has  ever  been 
the  chief  misfortune  of  potentates  that  they  are  surrounded 
by  a  dead  wall  of  courtiers  that  excludes  every  rude  but 
warning  sound. 

Phoebe's  excitable  temperament  correctly  interpreted  the 
occasion.  There  was  something  abroad  in  the  air  which 
charged  the  summer  night  with  subtle  and  electrif}-ing  power. 
Though  many  were  evidently  in  ignorance,  it  was  noted  that 
Fraunccs  exchanged  significant  glances  with  several  present, 
and  seemed  dilating  with  some  portentous  secret.  His  sup- 
pressed excitement  grew  more  apparent,  as  his  rooms  filled 
rapidly,  and  the  crowd  increased  about  the  doors.  It  was 
also  observed  that  all  the  newcomers  were  armed,  and  that 
among  the  rapidly  appearing  faces  were  those  which,  like 
beacon  fires,  always  betokened  some  doughty  undertaking. 
The  general  stir  and  hoarse  murmur  of  voices  was  greatly 
augmented  when  Saville  entered  with  young  Hamilton,  fol- 
lowed by  fifteen  students  from  King's  College,  all  fully 
armed.  The  latter  were  soon  chaflling  with  Phoebe  as  they 
took  from  the  tray  she  brought  them,  glasses  brimming  over 
with  rich  Madeira,  for  which  the  tavern  was  most  famous. 


58  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  With  father's  compUments,"  said  Phoebe,  courtesying. 

Then,  boy-like,  they  proposed  three  cheers  for  the  prince 
of  caterers  and  the  fair  Hebe  who  had  borne  them  the  nectar 
which  he  alone  could  furnish  ;  and  they  were  given  with 
deafening  heartiness  and  glasses  raised  aloft. 

They  were  scarcely  drained,  before  a  young  man,  leaning 
Upon  the  bar,  and  who  was  more  noted  for  his  drinking 
powers  than  his  discretion,  cried, 

' '  I  propose  another  toast — Saville,  who  is  doubly  to  be 
congratulated,  since  he  has  escaped  a  double  bondage— 
that  of  King  George  and  also  of  his  Tory  wife  ;  having 
slipped  the  cable  of  her  apron-string  by  which 

Before  he  could  finish  his  sentence,  Saville' s  fist  was 
planted  upon  his  mouth  with  such  force  as  to  send  him 
reeling  to  the  floor,  with  his  glass  clattering  after  him. 
Standing  over  the  prostrate  and  half-tipsy  man,  and  trem- 
bling with  rage,  Saville  said,  threateningly, 

"  The  man  who  dares  to  cast  a  slur  upon  my  wife  shall 
do  so  at  his  peril." 

There  was  the  usual  uproar  and  confused  sound  of  con- 
flicting voices,  when  a  cry  arose  which  drowned  all  else, 
"  Sears,  Sears,  King  Sears,"  and  that  great  firebrand  of  the 
American  Revolution,  whose  headlong  zeal  and  courage 
kindled  so  many  fires  of  contention  with  the  royal  authori- 
ties, stood  among  them. 

"  Come,  come,  comrades,"  he  cried,  "  no  need  of  inter- 
changing blows  here  among  yourselves.  Come  with  me, 
«.nd  I  will  give  you  a  crack  at  our  common  enemy.  Col- 
onel Lamb,  with  his  artillerymen,  and  Captain  Lasher,  with 
his  company,  are  marching  down  Broadway  to  take  the  guns 
at  the  fort,  without  saying  so  much  as  '  by  your  leave.' 
Who  will  follow  me  to  their  aid  ?" 

There  was  a  loud  acquiescing  shout,  while  Black  Sam 
sprang  over  his  bar,  crying, 


"A    SCENE  AT  BLACK  SAM'S."  59 

*'  Lead  on,  King  Sears,  and  the  man  who  refuses  to  fol- 
low may  choke  with  thirst  before  my  hand  serves  him 
again." 

In  Fraunces's  estimation,  this  was  the  direst  threat  he 
could  make,  and  in  fact,  to  many  present,  the  fulfillment 
would  be  like  cutting  off  the  springs  of  life. 

Hamilton  took  Saville's  arm,  saying, 

"  Come,  comrade,  fall  in.  What  do  the  maudlin  words 
of  that  drunken  fellow  signify.?  Come,  you  know  we've 
grand  work  on  hand  to-night. ' ' 

In  a  few  brief  moments  the  crowded,  noisy  rooms  were 
deserted.  The  street  became  full  of  hoarse  shoutings,  and 
the  confused  sound  of  many  feet,  as  Sears,  Hamilton,  and 
Other  extem.porized  officers  marshaled  the  citizen-soldiery  in 
something  like  orderly  array.  Then  from  the  head  of  the 
Colum.n  rang  out  those  stirring  words  which,  though  causing 
many  hearts  to  bound  with  hope  and  thrill  with  grand  excite- 
ment, have  yet  been  the  death-knell  of  myriads. 

"  Forward — march  !" 

With  strong  and  steady  tramp  the  dusky  figures  receded 
toward  Broadway,  while  Phoebe,  with  eyes  ablaze,  stood  in 
the  door  waving  a  farewell  with  her  handkerchief,  its  Sutter 
meaning  anything  rather  than  a  trace  with  King  George's 
agents  of  oppression. 

Black  Sam's  buxom  wife  took  his  place  behind  the  bar, 
while  Phoebe  repaired  to  an  upper  window  that  she  might 
see  if  the  English  man-of-war  in  the  harbor  had  anything  to 
add  to  the  drama  of  the  evening.  The  hitherto  thronged 
hostelry  became  silent,  being  deserted  by  all  save  a  few  old 
men  whose  age  precluded  them  from  taking  part  in  the 
events  of  the  night.  It  was  an  occasion  when  not  even  the 
famous  Madeira  of  Sam's  tavern  could  tempt  any  loyalists 
thither  ;  and  such  of  the  Whigs  as  were  too  prudent  to  join 
the  raid,  skulked  away,  much  preferring  to  face  a  dozen 


6o  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

English  batteries  than  to   hear  the  comments  of  Phoebe 
FrauRces  upon  their  discretion. 

As  for  the  young  woman  herself,  she  repined  bitterly  at 
the  usages  of  society  which  preveni^d  her  from  taking  hand 
in  the  promised  melee,  and  was  halt  inclined  *o  don  he? 
father's  habiliments,  and  be  a  man  in  spite  of  fate 


IfEW  YORK  UNDER  FIRE, 


CHAPTER  VII. 

NEW   YORK    UNDER    FIRE. 

C**OLONEL  LAMB  and  Captain  Lasher  with  their  com- 
^  panics  halted  on  Broadway  till  Sears  and  his  following 
of  citizens  joined  them  ;  then  thev  proceeded  at  once  to 
Fort  George,  which  had  its  front  on  Bowling  Green,  and 
was  located  within  the  space  now  bounded  by  State,  Bridge, 
and  Whitehall  Streets.  Tory  informers  had  revealed  to  the 
authorities  in  charge  of  this  work  the  intended  attack.  In 
view  of  the  overwhelming  force,  no  resistance  was  made  by 
the  small  garrison.  Unmolested  at  first,  the  patriots  went 
to  work  with  feverish  zeal  to  dismount  the  cannon  from  the 
bastions,  and  load  them  on  the  heavy  wagons  that  came 
lumbering  down  Broadway  for  the  purpose. 

To  Alexander  Hamilton  and  his  party  was  given  the  task 
of  capturing  Grand  Battery,  another  and  smaller  work  nearer 
the  river,  v/hich  was  also  accomplished  without  resistance. 

But  the  fiery  young  spirits  composing  this  band  were 
much  disappointed  at  the  quiet  and  peaceful  nature  of  the 
enterprise  thus  far. 

"  We  might  as  well  have  come  armed  with  only  pickaxes 
and  crowbars,"  growled  Hamilton, 

"  Yes,"  responded  Saville,  in  like  discontented  mood. 
**  A  brigade  of  carmen  was  all  that  was  required  on  this 
occasion.  I  had  hoped  that  the  night  would  be  enlivened 
by  a  few  flashes  at  least.  Suppose  we  go  down  to  the 
water's  edge  and  take  a  look  at  the  Asia." 


63  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

Securing  the  approval  of  their  superior  officers,  and  leav- 
ing a  guard  in  charge  of  the  work,  the  rest  of  the  party  com- 
menced patrolling  the  shore,  casting  wistful  glances  at  the 
ship,  whose  masts  and  yards  were  faintly  outlined  against 
the  sky. 

"  Now,  if  we  had  only  a  dozen  whale-boats,"  said  Ham- 
ilton, "  and  could  go  out  and  board  that  old  tub,  we  would 
have  a  night's  work  that  would  stir  one's  blood." 

"  Not  a  little  would  be  set  running,  no  doubt,"  replied 
Saville  ;  "  and  it  would  not  all  be  on  our  side  either,  I 
imagine.  But  see,  they  are  waking  up  on  board.  We  may 
have  a  bout  with  those  water  dogs  yet." 

It  soon  became  clear  that  there  was  an  unusual  stir  and 
excitement  on  the  vessel.  Lights  gleamed  and  glanced 
rapidly  from  point  to  p)oint,  and  faint  and  far  away  came 
the  sound  of  orders  hastily  given. 

Then  there  was  a  heavy  splash  ir\  the  water. 

"  Hurrah  !"  cried  Hamilton,  "  they  are  manning  a  boat 
We  will  resolve  ourselves  into  a  committee  of  reception." 

The  measured  cadence  of  oars  confirm^ed  the  surmise  just 
made,  and  the  young  men  eagerly  pressed  to  the  furthest 
point  of  land,  and  looked  well  to  the  priming  of  their  fire- 
locks. The  barge  was  pulled  steadily  toward  them  until  at 
last  a  4usky  outline  emerged  from  the  night,  and  then  the 
shadc'R^y  figures  of  the  crew. 

"  Make  not  a  sound,  and  let  them  land  if  they  will,"  said 
Hamilton  in  a  low  tone. 

But  the  barge  approached  warily,  with  lengthening  rests 
after  each  dip  of  the  oars.  At  last,  the  officer  in  command 
detected  the  little  party  in  waiting,  and  shouted  : 

'*  Who  and  what  are  you  ?  What  deviltry's  on  foot  to- 
night?" 

"  Come  and  see,"  cried  Hamilton  laconically. 

But  the  officer's  night-glass,  together  with  the  ominous 


NEW  YORK  UNDER  FIRE.  63 

sounds  from  Fort  George,  clearly  showed  that  this  was  not 
good  advice  under  the  circumstances.  There  was  a  hurried 
consultation,  and  then,  whether  by  order  or  not  cannot  be 
known,  some  one  in  the  boat  fired  a  musket,  and  the  hot 
young  bloods,  for  the  first  time,  heard  the  music  of  a  whist- 
ling bullet. 

"  Give  'em  a  volley — quick  \'''  cried  Hamilton. 

Obedience  to  the  order  was  indeed  prompt,  and  yet  not 
so  hasty  but  that  the  marksmen,  familiar  with  the  rifle  from 
boyhood,  took  good  aim,  and  several  in  the  barge  were 
killed  and  wounded.  The  silent  oars  at  once  struck  the 
water  sharply,  and  the  boat  rapidly  disappeared  toward  the 
man-of-war  ;  but  the  young  men  heard  enough  to  satisfy 
them  that  their  shots  had  taken  effect. 

Immediately  upon  the  report  of  the  first  musket.  Colonel 
Lamb,  Captain  Lasher,  and  King  Sears  hastened  to  the 
shore  with  many  others,  and  learned  from  Hamilton  what 
had  occurred.  In  the  mean  time  the  barge  reached  the 
vessel  and  reported,  satisfying  Captain  Vandeput  of  the  Asia 
that  the  intimations  he  had  received  of  the  proposed  attack 
upon  the  forts  were  correct.  The  British  authorities  hitherto 
had  hesitated  in  taking  decisive  action,  knowing  that  it 
would  precipitate  the  conflict  at  once.  But  now  the  point 
of  forbearance  seemed  passed,  and  he  ordered  the  port-holes 
opened  an'i  the  rebels  dispersed  by  a  few  shots.  In  quick 
succession  three  flashes  came  from  the  ship's  sides,  and 
three  balls  plowed  into  the  Battery. 

But  so  far  from  dispersing  quietlj',  Lamb  ordered  the 
drums  to  beat  to  arms,  and  the  church  bells  to  be  rung,  and 
soon  the  silent  city  was  in  an  uproar. 

English  blood,  as  well  as  American,  was  now  at  boiling 

point,  and  the  defiant  sounds  from  the  shore  were  no  longer 

answered  by  single  shots  but  by  broadsides,  the  thundering 

echoes  and  crashing  balls  of  which  awoke  both  Whigs  and 

Roe— VIII— D 


64  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

Tories  to  the  reali<tation  of  the  true  meaning  of  war.  The 
experiences  of  Bo3tcn,  the  very  thought  of  which  had  caused 
many  to  tremble,  were  now  their  own  in  the  aggravated 
form  of  a  midnight  cannonade.  Men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, many  but  partially  clad,  rushed  into  the  streets  and 
joined  the  increasing  throng  of  fugitives  that  pressed  toward 
the  open  country,  away  from  the  terrible  monster  in  the 
harbor,  whose  words  were  iron,  and  whose  hot  breath  threat- 
ened to  burn  their  homes  over  their  heads.  Tories,  as  they 
ran,  cursed  the  rebels,  whom  they  regarded  as  the  cause  of 
the  trouble  ;  and  the  Whigs  anath-^matized  British  tyranny. 
But  faster  and  hotter  ^han  their  oaths  the  heavy  balls  crashed 
into  their  houses  oi  over  their  heads,  with  the  peculiar, 
demoniacal  shriek  of  a  flying  shot. 

A  night  bombardment  is  a  terrible  thing  for  strong,  brave 
men  to  endure.  The  roar  of  cannon  is  awe-inspiring  in 
itself  ;  but  when  it  i^  remembered  that  every  flash  and 
thunder  peal  haf  its  resistless  bolt  which  is  aimed  at  one's 
life,  only  those  who  have  nerved  themselves  to  risk  their 
lives  calmly,  or  who,  like  the  patriots  on  the  Battery,  are 
lifted  by  mad  excitement  above  all  fears,  can  stand  unmoved. 
But  how  could  the  sick  and  the  aged — how  could  helpless 
women  and  children  endure  such  an  ordeal  ?  Only  the 
pitying  eye  of  God  no  ed  al.  the  fainting,  mortal  fear  of 
those  who  tremblingly  sna^'-hed  cliildren,  treasures,  or  sacred 
heirlooms,  and  sought  to  escape.  Hearts  almost  ceased 
their  beating,  as  the  terror-stricken  fugitives  heard  balls 
whizzing  toward  them.  The  messengers  of  death  might 
•trike  out  of  the  darkness  any  where  and  any  one.  Broad- 
way has  witnessed  many  scenes,  but  never  a  more  pitiable 
one  than  when,  in  that  August  midnight,  a  hundred  years 
ago,  it  was  thronged  with  half-clad,  shrinking,  sobbing 
women,  and  little  children  wailing  for  parents,  lost  in  the 
darkness  and  the  confusion  of  Hight.     When,  at  last,  the 


N'EfV  YORK  UNDER  FIRE.  65 

open  fields  beyond  the  range  of  the  Asia's  guns  were 
reached,  the  strangely  assorted  multitude,  from  whom  the 
gloom  of  night  and  common  misfortune  had  blotted  out  all 
distinctions,  sat  down  panting  and  weary,  and  prayed  for 
the  light  of  day. 

Many  who  were  helpless  and  a  few  who  were  brave  re- 
mained in  their  homes,  either  in  an  agony  of  fear  or  in  quiet 
resignation.  Among  the  latter  was  Phoebe  Fraunces.  But 
there  was  not  a  particle  of  resignation  in  her  nature,  for  she 
chafed  around  her  father's  tavern  like  a  caged  lioness  ;  and 
when  a  round  shot,  well  and  spitefully  aimed  at  the  '*  pesti- 
lent rebel  nest,"  as  it  was  called  on  the  Asia,  crashed 
through  the  house,  shattering  a  decanter  of  Madeira  that  the 
gunner  would  rather  have  drained  himself,  she  forgot  the 
softness  of  her  sex  utterly,  and  seizing  a  huge  cutlass  that 
hung  over  the  bar,  and  leaving  her  mother  to  recover  from 
a  fit  of  hysterics  as  best  she  might,  she  started  for  the  scene 
of  action  in  a  mood  that  would  have  led  her  to  board  the 
Asia  single-handed,  had  the  opportunity  offered.  But,  aa 
she  approached  Fort  G  or^e  anti  hear  the  rough  voices  o! 
the  men  at  work,  her  modesty  regained  its  control,  and  she 
realized  that  it  was  scarcely  proper  for  a  young  woman  to 
be  abroad  and  alone  at  that  time  of  the  night ;  so,  she  who 
was  ready  to  attack  a  man-of-war,  turned  and  fled  before 
that  which  a  true  woman  fears  more  than  an  army — the 
appearance  of  evil.  But  it  would  have  been  a  woful 
blunder  for  any  rude  fellow  to  have  spoken  to  Phoebe  that 
night,  armed  as  she  was  with  the  old  cutlass,  and  abundance 
of  muscle  to  wield  it.  His  gallant  cdvances  would  have 
been  cut  short  instantly. 

Although  there  was  panic  in  the  city,  there  was  nothing 
erf  the  kind  within  the  dismantled  walls  of  Fort  George 
from  which  the  cannon  were  fast  disappearing  ;  nor  upon 
the  Battery,  where  Colonel  Lamb's  artillerymen,  flanked  by 


66  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

Hamilton  and  his  students,  were  drawn  up,  to  prevent  the 
Asia  from  interfering  with  their  operations  by  landing  a 
force  from  the  vessel.  But  Captain  Vanderput  prudently 
contented  himself  with  striking  from  a  distance,  supposing 
that  the  terrors  of  a  night  bombardment  would  soon  bring 
the  contumacious  rebels  to  their  knees.  To  make  the  warn- 
ing  lesson  still  mo'.e  effectual,  and  to  increase  their  punish- 
ment  greatly,  he  ordered  the  guns  to  be  loaded  occasionally 
with  the  deadly  grape-shot 

But,  in  the  morning,  both  he  and  the  populace  had  a 
surprise.  The  Battery  was  not  covered  with  killed  and 
wounded.  In  fact,  there  was  not  a  Whig  to  be  seen,  dead 
or  alive.  But  neither  was  there  a  cannon  to  be  found  in 
the  royal  forts.  While  he  had  been  thundering  his  dis- 
approval from  the  harbor,  the  "raw  militia,"  who,  his 
officers  jocularly  asserted,  "would  not  stop  running  south 
of  King's  Bridge,"  had  steadily  completed  their  tasks,  and 
spirited  off  every  gun  to  parts  unknown. 

And  when,  in  the -peaceful  summer  morning,  the  fugitives, 
who  had  spent  the  night  in  the  open  air,  concluded  they 
had  better  go  home  to  breakfast,  and  appear  in  less  pictu- 
resque toilets,  they  found,  instead  of  death,  carnage,  and 
gutters  running  with  blood,  no  wounds  save  those  which  the 
carpenter  and  joiner  could  heal.  It  was  another  remarkable 
example  of  how  little  destruction  may  be  caused  by  a  bom- 
bardment, even  in  a  crowded  city.  The  mercurial  temper- 
ament of  the  people,  which  their  descendants  seem  to  have 
inherited,  led  those  of  Whig  proclivities,  who  were  over- 
whelmed with  terror  but  a  few  hours  previous,  to  react  into 
cheerfulness  and  exultation.  Many  doughty  citizens,  who 
stole  into  their  back  entrances,  strangely  appareled,  soon 
afterward  appeared,  dressed  in  different  style,  at  their  front 
doors,  hoping  that  their  flight  had  been  covered  by  the  dark- 
ness ;  and  not  a  few,  who  had  made  excellent  time  toward 


ATfifT  YORK  UNDER  FIRE.  6^ 

King's  Bridge,  ventured,  over  their  dram  at  the  comers  of 
the  streets,  to  descant  on  ' '  the  way  we  carried  off  the  British 
bulldogs  from  the  fort" 

The  Tory  element  in  the  city  was  very  quiet  that  day  ; 
but  a  sullen,  vindictive  expression  lowered  upon  many  faces. 
The  timid  and  conservative  sighed,  again  and  again, 

"  Where  is  this  thing  to  end  ?" 

In  a  beautiful  up-town  villa,  the  face  of  one  fair  woman 
was  often  distorted  with  passion  and  hate,  as  she  hissed, 
through  her  teeth,  ^'  He  was  foremost  in  this  vile  night 
work."  But  when  Saville,  hungry  and  exhausted,  reached 
his  home,  his  mother,  who  had  been  a  sleepless  watcher, 
only  folded  him  in  her  arms,  murmuring, 

"  Thank  God  !  you  are  yet  spared  to  me." 

Then  she  gave  him  a  breakfast  that  in  future  campaigning 
caused  many  a  longing  sigh  as  he  remembered  it. 


68  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LARRY    MEETS    HIS    FATE. 

AVING  completed  all  the  arrangements  possible  for 
his  mother's  comfort,  and  settled  his  affairs  as  far  as 
the  times  permitted,  Saville  made  known  his  readiness  to 
enter  the  regular  service  at  any  point  where  he  could  be 
most  useful.  His  education  as  an  engineer  led  to  his  being 
sent  to  Martelear's  Rock  (Constitution  Island)  in  the  High- 
lands of  the  Hudson.  He  would  have  much  preferred 
serving  under  Washington,  before  Boston,  but  had  too 
much  of  the  spirit  of  a  soldier  to  think  of  aught  save  prompt 
obedience.  Having  been  commissioned  as  lieutenant,  he 
repaired  to  the  scene  of  his  duties  about  the  last  of  Septem- 
ber, and  found  that  he  was  to  serve  under  an  ofificer  by  the 
name  of  Colonel  Romans,  who  had  arrived  on  the  ground 
with  a  small  working  force  about  a  month  earlier.  He  was 
assigned  to  the  duty  of  superintending  the  details  of  labor 
and  the  carrying  out  of  the  plans  of  the  chief  engineer  in 
respect  to  the  incipient  fortifications. 

While  strolling  around  the  rocky  island,  the  evening  after 
his  arrival,  he  soon  came  in  full  view  of  the  extreme  point 
of  land  on  the  western  shore,  whereon  he  had  seen  such  a 
strange  vision  a  few  months  previous.  In  the  press  and 
excitement  of  succeeding  events,  the  circumstance  had 
quite  faded  from  his  memory  ;  but  now,  with  the  purpose 
of  diverting  his  mind  from  painful  thoughts,  he  decided  to 
solve  the  pretty  enigma  by  which  he  had  been  so  unexpect- 


LARRY  MEETS  HIS  FATE.  69 

edly  baffled.  He  made  some  inquiries  of  the  small  garrison 
with  whom  he  was  associated  ;  but  they,  like  himself,  were 
newcomers,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  few  inhabitants  of  the 
region.  For  several  days  he  was  too  much  occupied  with 
the  effort  to  obtain  the  mastery  of  his  duties  to  think  of 
aught  else,  and,  when  evening  came,  was  well  contented  to 
climb  some  rocky  point  on  the  island,  and  rest,  while  he 
enjoyed  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  landscape  ;  for  this 
historic  region  was  just  as  weird  and  lovely  then  as  now, 
when  it  is  admired  by  thousands  of  touristS: 

But  one  warm  afternoon,  early  in  October,  he  took  with 
■  him  the  garrulous  Larry,  his  body-servant,  who  had  followed 
the  fortunes  of  his  master,  and  started  in  a  little  skiff  down 
the  river  to  a  cottage  on  the  western  bank,  which  he  had 
noted  on  his  journey  up.  This  might  be  the  home  of  the 
wood-nymph,  or  he  »,here  might  learn  something  about  her. 
"  Come,  Larry,  \  want  time  for  a  little  shooting  after  I 
land,"  said  SavH'e,  impatiently  ;  "so  pull  away,  and  I 
will  steer,  for  the  tide  is  against  us." 

"I'm  oblee/jed  to  yer  honor,"  replied  Larry,  dryly,  tug- 
ging at  the  oars  ;  "  there's  nothing  like  dewision  of  labor." 
"  You  can  rest  while  I  am  tramping  round  with  my  gun," 
said  Saville,  who  gave  Larry  something  of  the  license  of  a 
court  jester.  "  I  shall  expect  you  to  wait  for  me  where 
I  leave  you,  so  that  there  may  be  no  delay  in  our  return." 

"  Faix,  sur,  I  hope  ye's  gun  will  be  more  ready  to  go  off 
than  I'll  be,  arter  this  pull." 

Having  descended  the  river  half  a  mile  below  the  foaming 
cascade  now  known  as  Buttermilk  Falls,  they  fastened  their 
boat  and  ascended  the  bank  to  the  cottage,  or,  more  cor- 
rectly, log  cabin. 

Saville   quickly  saw  enough    to  convince   him   that  this 
could  not  be  the  home  of  the  young  girl  who  sang 
**  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows." 


7©  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

A  hnge,  fat  hog  reclined  in  the  sun  near  the  step,  and 
chickens  passed  in  and  out  of  the  door,  as  if  they  had  equal 
rights  with  the  family,  while  the  cow-stable  formed  an  exten- 
sion to  the  dwelling,  and  was  quite  as  well  built  as  the  rest 
of  it.  Were  it  not  for  his  wish  to  make  inquiries,  he  would 
have  turned  away  in  disgust. 

But  for  I.arr}'  the  scene  appeared  to  have  unwonted  attrac- 
tions. With  arms  akimbo  he  struck  an  attitude  of  admiring 
contemplation,  as  he  exclaimed, 

"I'm  glad  I  come  wid  your  honor,  for  I've  seen  nothink 
so  swate  since  I  left  the  ould  counthr}'.  Now,  isn't  that  a 
beautiful  soight .?  Pace  and  plenty  !  'Twas  jist  such  a  pig 
as  that  as  grunted  at  me  father' s  door.  Faix,  sur,  it  makes 
me  a  bit  homesick  ;"  and  Larrj^'s  shrewd,  twinkling  eyes 
grew  moist  from  early  memories. 

As  they  proceeded  a  little  further,  Larry  saw  that  which 
proved  quite  as  attractive  to  him  as  the  vision  of  Vera  had 
been  to  Saville  a  few  months  before  ;  but  the  elements  of 
mysterj-  and  romance  were  wholly  wanting.  In  a  small 
inclosure  back  of  the  house  a  young  Irishwoman  was  dig- 
ging potatoes.  As  the  men  approached,  she  leaned  leisurely 
upon  her  fork- handle,  and  stared  at  them  unblenchingly. 
Her  head  was  bare,  but  well  thatched  with  thick,  tangled 
tresses  which  were  a  little  too  fiery  to  be  called  golden. 
Her  eyes  were  dark,  expressive,  and  bold  ;  her  stout  arms 
were  red  and  freckled,  as  was  also  her  full  and  rather  hand- 
some face.  In  simplicity  and  picturesqueness  no  fault  could 
be  found  with  her  dress,  for  it  appeared  to  consist  only  of  a 
red  petticoat  and  a  scant  blue  bodice  ;  but  it  might  well 
have  been  mended  at  several  points.  Her  feet  and  ankles 
were  as  bare  as  those  of  INIaud  Muller,  if  not  so  shapely  and 
slender.  But,  as  she  stood  there,  aglow  with  exercise,  in 
the  afternoon  sun,  she  seemed  to  Larry  a  genuine  Irish 
houri — the  most  perfect  flower  of  the  Green  Isle  that  he  had 


LARRY  MEETS  HIS  FATE.  7 1 

ever  seen  ;  and  he  hoped  that  his  master,  who  had  accosted 
an  old  woman  knitting  in  the  doorway,  would  keep  him 
waiting  indefinitely,  so  that  he  might  make  the  acquaintance 
of  this  rare  creature. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  well,  madam,  and  enjoying  the  fine 
afternoon,"  began  Saville,  with  French  suavity. 

"  Umph  !"  responded  the  old  woman,  and  after  looking 
him  over  briefly,  went  on  with  her  knitting. 

"  Have  you  any  neighbors  in  this  region  .?"  asked  Saville, 
undaunted  by  his  forbidding  reception. 

"  Mighty  few  as  is  neighborly." 

"  But  there  are  other  families  living  near.' 

"  A  small  sprinklin'." 

"  Haven't  you  some  neighbors  further  up  the  river,  and 
nearly  opposite  the  island  where  we  are  building  the  fort.?" 

"  Indade,  an'  we  have  not.  Our  neighbors  be  dacent 
folks  who  own  their  land,  and  not  skulkin'  and  hidin' 
squatters." 

"  Would  you  mind  taking  a  shilling  for  a  bowl  of  milk  .?" 
said  Saville,  pursuing  his  object  with  a  little  finesse. 

"Now  ye  talk  sinse,"  replied  the  old  woman,  rising. 
"  No,  nor  two  on  'em.  I  ax  your  pardon  for  being  a  bit 
offish,  for  I've  seen  sogers  in  the  oiild  counthry,  an'  no 
good  came  o'  'em.  Yer  grinnin'  man  there  is  not  a  soger, 
be  he?" 

"  No,  indeed  ;  Larry  is  a  man  of  peace." 

"  'Kase  I  want  'em  all  to  understand  that  if  any  sogers 
come  a  snoopin'  round  here  arter  IMolly,  they'll  be  arter 
catchin'  me  'stead  o'  her." 

"  I  don't  think  any  will  come,  then,"  said  Saville  gravely. 
"  But  I'm  sorry  you  give  your  neighbors  up  the  river  such 
a  bad  character." 

"It's  not  meself  that  gives  'em  a  bad  character,  but  their 
own  bad  dades, ' ' 


72  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  Why,  what  have  they  done  ?" 

**  That's  raore'n  any  one  knows  ;  sumpin'  the  ould 
man's  mighty  'shamed  on,  for  he  won't  look  honest  folk  in 
the  face  ;  and  as  for  that  wild  hawk  of  a  gal  o'  his'n,  the 
less  said  'bout  her  the  better.  She's  kind  of  a  witch,  any- 
how, and  'pears  and  dodges  out  o'  sight  while  yer  winkin'. 
She  needn't  turn  up  her  nose  at  my  Molly  there,  that's  corns 
o'  dacent  folk." 

"  And  has  she  been  guilty  of  that  offense .?" 

"  Dade  an'  she  has  ;  Molly  comes  'cross  her  now  an' 
thin,  out  berr}'in',  and  fust  she  tried  to  speak  her  fair,  but 
the  ill-mannered  crather  would  kinder  stare  at  her  a  minut^ 
and  thin  vanish  in  a  flash.  She's  larnt  more  o'  that  ould 
heathen  black  witch,  as  lives  wid  'em,  than  anythin'  good. " 

'*  What  is  the  name  of  the  family  ?" 

"  That,  too,  is  more'n  anybody  knows.  They  calls 
'emselves  '  Brown  ; '  but  I  know  'tain' t  their  name  ;  for  it 
was  meself  that  did  a  bit  o'  washin'  for  'em  once  when  the 
woman  was  sick,  and  there  was  two  names  on  the  linen, 
but  nary  one  nor  tother  was  Brown.  I  couidnr't  list  make 
out  what  they  was,  for  I  hain't  good  at  readin'  ;  but  one 
thing  is  sartin,  husband  and  wife  don't  have  two  names." 

"  Have  they  done  anything  wrong  since  they  came  here  ?" 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  they  are  robbin'  and  murderin'  every 
night,  and  yet  how  they  live  nobody  knows.  But  it's  'nuff 
that  they're  hathen.  They  did  widout  the  praste  in  the  fust 
place,  and  nary  a  thing  have  they  had  to  do  wid  praste  or 
parson  since.  The  ould  black  witch  worships  the  divil,  for 
Molly's  seen  her  in  the  woods  a-goin'  on  as  would  make 
yer  har  stan'  up  ;  and  I'm  a-thinkin'  the  divil  will  git  'em 
all ;  an'  he  may,  for  all  o'  me.  " 

By  the  time  Saville  had  finished  his  bowl  of  bread  and 
milk,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  crone  had  more 
spite  and  prejudice  against  her  neighbors  than  knowledge 


LARRY  MEETS  HIS  FATE.  73 

of  them.  It  was  the  old  story  of  resentment  on  the  part  of 
the  ignorant  and  the  vulgar  toward  superiority  and  exclu- 
siveness.  It  was  very  probable,  however,  that  some  guilty 
secret  of  the  past  led  to  this  utter  seclusion.  Saville  well 
knew  that  there  were  many  hiding  in  the  wilderness  whose 
antecedents  would  not  bear  much  light.  And  yet  his  curi- 
osity, so  far  from  being  satisfied,  was  only  piqued  the  more 
hy  the  old  woman's  dark  intimations.  Taking  his  gun,  he 
said  to  Larry,  who  was  now  digging  potatoes  vigorously, 

"  So  that  is  the  way  you  are  resting." 

"  Diggin'  praties  is  an  aisy  change,  and  kind  o'  home- 
like ;  and  thin,  yer  honor,  ye  wud  not  have  me  a-standin* 
like  a  great  lazy  lout,  while  a  fair  leddy  was  a-workin'. " 

"  Very  well  ;  but  save  enough  muscle  to  row  me  home." 
And  he  went  back  upon  the  hills  in  quest  of  game,  leaving 
his  deeply  smitten  factotum  to  the  wiles  of  Molly,  who, 
with  hands  upon  her  hips,  contemplated  his  chivalric  labors 
in  her  behalf  with  great  complacency. 

"  The  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  ye,"  Larry  had  said  as  he 
approached,  doffing  his  hat. 

"  Faix,  an  ye' re  a  green  Irishman  not  to  know  the  afther- 
noon  from  mornin',"  was  Molly's  rather  brusque  greeting. 

"  The  sight  o'  ye  wud  make  any  time  o'  night  or  day 
seem  the  bright  mornin',"  was  Larry's  gallant  rejoinder. 

"  Ye  kissed  the  blarney- stone  afore  ye  left  home,  I'm 
a-thinkin'." 

"  An'  ye' 11  let  me  kiss  yer  own  red  lips,  I'll  dig  all  these 
praties  for  ye." 

'  I  see  ye' re  good  at  a  sharp  bargain,  if  ye  be  a  bit  green. 
But  I'll  wait  till  ye  dig  the  praties." 

"  But  ye' 11  give  me  jist  one  buss  when  I'm  half  through, 
to  kinder  stay  me  stomach." 

"  There's  plenty  lads  as  wud  be  glad  to  dig  the  praties 
for  me  widout  a-drivin'  hard  bargains  for  it." 


74  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART. 

"  So  they'll  tell  yees  afther  the  praties  is  dug.  They'll 
be  very  swate  about  it  whin  the  cowld  snow  kivers  the 
ground." 

"An'  ye  think  ye' re  very  swate  about  it  now,"  said 
Molly,  with  her  head  coquettishly  on  one  side. 

"  No,  but  I'm  a-hopin'  ye' 11  be  swate  about  it." 

"  What's  yer  name,  anyhow  ?" 

"  Larry  O'Flarharty  ;  an'  ye  may  have  it  yerself  any  day 
that  ye'  11  go  wid  me  to  the  praste. 

"  Is  that  what  ye  say  to  every  gal  ye  mate  ?" 

'•  Faix,  an'  it  is  not.  It's  to  yersel  that  I've  fust  said 
it." 

"Ye' re  better  at  talkin'  than  doin'.  I  thought  I'd  git 
at  least  one  hill  o'  praties  dug  by  yees." 

"  Give  me  the  fork,  thin,  and  I'll  show  ye  that  Larry 
O'Flarharty  can  take  care  o'  ye  and  a  dozen  childer  into 
the  bargain." 

"  Och,  ye  spalpeen  !  Ye' 11  have  me  coorted,  married, 
and  a  gran' mother,  afore  ye  git  a  praty  out  the  dirt." 

Larry  set  about  his  labor  of  love  with  such  zeal  that  the 
potatoes  fairly  hopped  out  of  the  ground,  carroling,  as  he 
worked, 

"  I'll  dress  ye  up  in  silks  so  foine, 
An'  ye  shall  drink  the  best  o'  woine. 
Be  jabers  !  but  we'll  cut  a  shoine 
The  day  when  what's  yer  name  is  moine." 

How's  that  for  a  dilicate  way  of  axing  ye  yer  name  ?" 

"  What  do  I  want  wid  a  name  since  ye' re  goin'  to  give 

me  yourn  ?' ' 

"  What  shall  I  call  ye  till  the  happy  day  comes  ?" 

"  Molly,  for  short." 

'*  Let  it  be  for  short,  thin,  and  not  for  long." 

"  D'ye  think  I  wud  marr}'  a  man  o'  all  work  ?    I'm  goin' 

to  marry  a  gallant  soger  boy. " 


LARRY  MEETS  HIS  FATE.  7S 

**  No  ye  hain't,  nayther,"  struck  in  her  mother,  whose 
age  had  evidently  not  impaired  her  hearing. 

Molly  gave  her  head  a  defiant  toss  which  indicated  that  the 
maternal  leading-strings  had  parted  long  ago.  Larry  paused 
abruptly  in  his  work,  and  leaning  his  chin  on  the  fork- 
handle,  asked, 

"  Are  ye  sarious  about  that  now  ?" 

**  Ah,  go  on  wid  yer  work  and  sthop  yer  foolin',"  said 
Molly,  who  saw  that  she  had  made  a  false  move  in  her  little 
game  to  get  her  potatoes  dug  by  another. 

"  Divil  a  praty  will  I  dig  till  ye  tell  me." 

"  Divil  another  shall  ye  dig  any  way,  ye  impudent  spal- 
peen I"  retorted  Molly,  who  was  touchy  as  gunpowder; 
and  she  took  the  fork  out  of  his  hands,  and  turning  her 
back  upon  him,  struck  it  into  the  potato  hillocks  as  only  a 
spiteful  termagant  could.  Discomfited  Larry  in  the  mean 
time  perched  himself  on  the  fence,  that  he  might  take  an 
observation,  and  hold  a  council  of  war  in  his  own  mind 
But  the  more  he  looked  the  more  the  charms  of  this  wonder- 
ful creature  grew  upon  him,  and  his  soft,  impressible  heart 
became  as  wax.  He  soon  hopped  down  from  his  rail,  and 
said, 

•'  Come  now,  Molly  darlint,  what's  the  use  o'  a-goin' 
agin  fate  .?  Ye  shall  marry  a  soger  bhoy,  I  see  that  by  the 
cut  of  yer  perty  jib,  as  the  sailors  say.  Ye've  spunk  and 
fire  enough  for  a  rigiment.  Give  me  the  fork  agin,  and 
one  o'  yer  own  swate  smiles." 

"  Well,  since  ye' re  a  sort  o'  baste  o'  burden,  an  loike 
workin'  better  nor  fightin',  ye  may  have  yer  way. " 

"  Faix,  an'  I  will  be  a  baste  wid  the  burden  of  a  sore  an' 
heavy  heart,  if  ye  talk  to  me  in  that  way." 

Molly  could  come  out  of  a  pet  as  quickly  as  she  fell  into 
it,  and  so  she  said, 

"I'll  be  swate  thin  till  ye  git  the  praties  dug." 


76  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  Yh,  an'  many  a  long  day  afther.  I  know  the  soger 
bhoy  ye're  goin'  to  marry." 

'*  No,  ye  don't." 

•*Yis,  I  do." 

"  What's  his  name  ?' 

"  Larry  O'Flarharty.  The  masther  may  git  a  new  man, 
for  I'm  goin'  to  'list.  The  nixt  time  ye  see  me  I'll  be  a 
gay  and  gallant  soger  bhoy.      I'll " 

"  Hush,  mother's  comin'." 

Larry  delved  alter  the  potatoes  as  if  they  were  halfway 
down  to  China. 

The  old  woman  looked  sharply  and  suspiciously  at  them, 
but  only  said, 

"  Molly,  go  afther  the  cows. 

"  I'll  go  wid  ye,"  cried  Larry,  throv/ing  down  the  fork. 

"  No,  ye  won't,"  retorted  the  old  woman  ;  "  yer  masther 
tould  ye  to  bide  here  till  he  come." 

••I'm  a-thinkin'  I'll  be  me  own  masther,"  said  Larry, 
straightening  himself  up  ;  "  everybody's  gittin'  free  an' 
indepindent,  and  I'll  thry  a  hand  at  it  meself." 

"  Go  along  and  git  'em  yerself,  mother,"  added  Molly, 
who  began  to  entertain  some  thoughts  of  her  own  in  regard 
to  this  ardent  admirer  that  was  so  subservient  to  her  will  and 
moods.  "  They  hain't  far  off ;  and  ye  wud  not  have  me 
treat  the  man  what  has  been  a-workin'  for  me  all  the  afther- 
noon  so  oncivil  as  to  lave  him  alone.  Go  along,  and  we'll 
have  the  praties  dug  agin  ye  git  back." 

The  old  woman  was  in  straits  what  to  do,  since  in  either 
case  she  must  leave  her  daughter  alone  with  one  at  least 
nearly  connected  with  the  dreaded  "sogers;"  but  at  last 
she  hobbled  grumblingly  after  the  cows,  the  tinkle  of  whose 
bells  proclaimed  them  near. 

With  the  usual  perverseness  of  human  nature,  Molly  grew 
friendly  toward  the  soldiers  as  her  mother  showed  prejudice 


LARRY  MEETS  HIS  FATE.  77 

against  them.  The  more  she  learned  about  their  life,  the 
more  attractive  its  publicity,  vicissitudes,  and  excitement 
became  to  her  bold,  restless  spirit,  and  she  had  already  re- 
solved to  enter  the  camp  in  some  capacity  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment.  The  thought  now  occurred  to  her  that 
perhaps  she  might  find  in  this  plastic,  garrulous  stranger 
just  the  chance  she  hoped  for.  Molly  was  aware  of  her 
infirmity  of  temper,  and  if  she  could  find  a  '*  soger"  that 
could  be  kept  submissively  under  her  thumb,  she  would 
consider  herself  blessed  with  better  luck  than  she  had  ever 
dared  to  expect, 

Larry  made  his  first  favorable  impression  when  he  good- 
naturedly  dismounted  from  his  rail,  and  recommenced  the 
work  which  she  was  ready  enough  to  leave  to  him  ;  and  she 
was  not  long  in  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  if  this  pliable 
and  useful  man  of  all  work  could  be  transformed  into  a 
regular  soldier,  and  then  be  captured  as  a  sort  of  base  of 
operations,  which  would  enable  her  to  lead  a  free,  wild, 
rollicking  life,  she  had  better  make  the  most  of  the  oppor- 
tunity. But  she  went  direct  to  her  point  with  feminine 
indirectness,  and  so  when  her  mother  was  out  of  hearing, 
said, 

"  Ye' re  not  brave  enough  to  be  a  soger." 
"  An'  ye  are  not  brave  enough  to  marry  one.  *' 
"  Some  foine    day,   when  ye're  a-blackin'  yer  masther's 
boots,  ye' 11  find  yerself  mistaken,  for  ye' II  see  me  a-walkin' 
into  camp  the  wife  o'   the  handsomest  man  o'  the  lot  o* 
yees." 

"  Now  what  do  ye  mane  be  that  V  asked  Larry,  abruptly 
suspending  his  labors,  while  his  chin  and  troubled  phiz  again 
surmounted  the  fork-handle. 

"  I  mane,"  said  Molly  yawning,  "  that  I'm  only  a-waitin* 
to  make  up  me  mind  which  of  me  soger  swatehearts  to 
take." 


78  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"An'  how  many  have  ye,  sure?"  said  Larry,  in  some- 
thing like  dismay, 

"  Oh  !  sumthin'  less  than  a  dozen," 

"  But  ye  hain't  made  up  yer  mind  on  any  on  'em  yit?" 
queried  the  anxious  lover. 

"  Well,  not  yit.  There's  two  or  three  on  'em  I  could 
worry  along  wid  if  I  thried," 

"  Yis,  an'  it  would  be  worryin'  along,  Molly,  me  dear; 
while  wid  me  ye'd  be  happy  as  a  quane." 

"  But  I  telled  ye  afore  I  was  goin'  to  marry  a  soger." 

"  And  I  telled  ye  afore  I  was  a  goin'  to  be  a  soger." 

"  Yis,  a-goin'  an'  a-goin',  but  I'll  belave  it  when  I  see 
it" 

"  An'  one  wake  from  this  day  ye  will  see  it,"  protested 
Larry,  with  hearty  emphasis. 

* '  Now  ye  begin  ter  talk  a  little  sinse, ' '  said  Molly,  more 
complacently.  "Well,  well,  I'll  thry  ye,  and  give  yean 
aven  start  wid  me  other  swatehearts.  If  ye' re  down  by  the 
wather  a  wake  from  this  afthernoon  dressed  as  a  gay  soger 
boy,  I'll  think  ye  mane  sumthin',  but  all  yer  foine  words 
now  is  loike  spilt  wather," 

"  Och,  Molly,  me  darlint,"  cried  Larry,  and  pitching 
away  his  fork,  he  threw  his  arms  around  the  bewitching  crea- 
ture, and  took  full  payment  for  his  labor  of  the  afternoon. 

"Hold  on,  Larry,"  cried  his  master,  who  had  returned 
just  in  time  to  witness  this  last  demonstration  ;  "  hold  on, 
or  you  will  never  be  able  to  row  me  back  to  camp." 

"  Faix,  yer  honor,"  said  Larry,  somewhat  abashed  that 
his  gallantry  had  been  observed,  "  I  fale  much  refreshed." 

"  Well,  come  along,  then  ;  it's  time  we  were  off." 

"  Good-by,  thin,  Molly,  my  dear,  for  one  long  wake." 

"  Ye're  nothin'  but  a  wild  Irishman,"  said  Molly,  half 
angry,  and  half  laughing  ;  "  but  mind  ye,  come  in  the 
toggery  I  tould  ye  on,  or  don't  ye  come  at  all." 


LARRY  MEETS  HIS  FATE.  79 

**  Don't  ye  fear.  Whin  I  come  agin,  yer  other  s\^'ate- 
hearts  will  be  like  the  stars  when  the  sun  comes  over  the 
mountain." 

**  An'  hist !"  continued  Molly  ;  "  don't  ye  come  up  to 
the  house,  or  mother' 11  take  yer  life.  I'll  mate  ye  at  the 
wather." 

That  night  Larry  made  known  his  purpose  to  enlist  at 
once.  In  vain  Saville  protested.  Like  the  immortal 
Romeo,  Larry  had  found  his  Juliet,  and  was  in  feverish 
haste  to  don  the  uniform  that  would  give  him  an  "  aven 
sthart  wid  the  other  spalpeens  of  swatehearts, "  whose  imag- 
ined rivalr)',  Molly  had  shrewdly  guessed,  would  be  a  most 
powerful  incentive  to  prompt  action. 

"  But  don't  ye  mind,  yer  honor  ;  it's  in  the  'tillery  I'm 
goin'  to  'list,  and  so  I  can  do  yer  odd  jobs  jist  the  same." 

' '  Are  you  going  to  marry  that  carroty-headed  girl  over 
there.?" 

"  If  ye  spake  of  the  swate  crathur  in  that  way,  divil  a  turn 
will  I  do  for  ye  agin." 

"  Mark  my  words,  Larry,  you  are  giving  up  one  master 
to  find  a  harder  one,"  at  which  his  quondam  servant  went 
growling  and  muttering  away. 

Larry  was  true  to  his  tryst,  and  the  reader  may  be  assured 
that  the  strategic  Molly  was  not  absent.  After  two  or  three 
meetings,  in  which  she  nearly  tormented  the  poor  fellow 
out  of  his  senses,  with  fear  and  jealousy  ot  the  mythical 
"  swatehearts"  who  were  just  about  to  earn,'  her  off,  Molly 
permitted  the  entrancing  concession  to  be  wrung  from  her, 
"  I  will  stale  away  wid  ye  to  the  praste,  if  I  kin  only  git  a 
pair  o'  shoes. ' ' 

Having  received  this  sweet  assurance  of  affections  won, 
Larry,  on  his  return,  made  pacific  overtures  to  his  former 
master. 

"  Ye  know  that  I  served  ye  long  and  faithfully," 


8o  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

'*  Well,  that  will  do  for  preface.  What  do  you  want 
now,  Larry?" 

"  Faix,  sur,  an'  if  ye'U  give  me  a  pair  o'  yer  shoes,  I'll 
do  many  a  good  turn  to  pay  for  'em." 

"  With  all  respect  for  your  understanding,  Larry,  I  don't 
think  they'll  fit  you." 

"I've  taken  the  measure  of  a  fut  as  they  will  fit,  yer 
honor." 

"  Oh  1  I  see  now  ;  yes,  yes,  there  are  the  shoes  ;  and 
by  the  way,  Larry,  I  have  a  pair  of  leather  breeches  which 
you  may  take  her  also  ;  for  she  struck  me  as  one  who  would 
be  sure  to  wear  them  before  long." 

"  Bless  yer  honor,  ye  mustn't  judge  all  the  women  o'  the 
world  by  yer  own  bad  luck. "  And  with  this  home-thrust, 
Larry  went  chuckling  away  with  the  shoes  that  were  to  con- 
summate his  happiness. 

Before  a  week  of  wedded  bliss  had  passed,  the  newly 
fledged  artiller}^man  found  that  he  had,  indeed,  exchanged 
his  old  master  for  a  more  exacting  one,  and  he  dubbed  the 
redoubtable  Molly  "captain,"  long  before  she  won  the 
title  by  her  military  prowess. 


LEFT  TO  NATURE'S  CARE. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

LEFT  TO    nature's   CARE. 

THE  changes  that  war  was  about  to  make,  in  the  wild 
and  secluded  region  which  Vera's  father  had  chosen 
as  his  retreat  and  hiding-place,  soon  began  to  manifest 
themselves.  The  arrival  of  the  engineer,  Colonel  Romans, 
with  his  working  force,  at  Constitution  Island,  was  discov- 
ered almost  immediately  by  the  young  girl,  while  out  upon 
one  of  her  excursions,  in  the  latter  part  of  August.  Nor 
could  the  advent  of  the  soldiery  be  kept  from  her  father,  as 
the  morning  and  evening  guns,  and  the  notes  of  the  drum 
and  fife,  announced  their  presence,  with  startling  distinct' 
iiess,  in  the  quiet  summer  air. 

At  first  the  morbid  and  conscience- stricken  man  was  in 
great  excitement  and  alarm,  and,  with  the  tendency  com- 
mon to  persons  in  his  condition,  connected  the  unlooked- 
for  event  with  danger  to  himself.  His  fears  led  him  to 
propose  that  they  should  all  leave  their  home,  and  seek 
some  more  secluded  spot  far  back  in  the  mountains  ;  but 
for  once  his  meek  and  gentle  wife  was  firm  in  her  opposition 
to  his  will.  She  saw  that  her  husband's  mind  had  become 
SO  warped  that  it  was  no  longer  capable  of  correct  judgment 
in  any  matter  where  his  fears  were  concerned.  The  reason 
for  the  military  occupation  of  the  island  opposite  she  had 
not  yet  learned,  but  could  not  see  how  it  necessarily  threat- 
ened  them  with  danger.  Moreover,  her  desire  that  Vera 
might  form  acquaiatances,  who  could  rescue  her  eveatuali^ 


82  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

from  a  seclusion  that  might  at  last  leave  the  girl  utterly 
alone  in  the  world,  incre^ed  daily.  In  spite  of  her  felse 
hopes,  which  were  a  part  of  her  disease,  and  an  earnest  de- 
sire to  live,  she  had  failed  so  rapidly,  during  the  oppressive 
heats  of  summer,  that  vague  fears  for  the  future  often  gave 
her  great  uneasiness.  She  clearly  recognized  her  husband's 
growing  distemper  of  mind,  and  old  Gula  was  still  less  to 
be  depended  upon.  How  could  she  leave  her  child  so 
friendless  and  unshielded  ? 

In  her  terrible  anxiety,  the  gentle  creature  would  at  times 
become  almost  stem  and  fierce  in  her  appeals  to  heaven, 
crying  : 

'•  O  God  I  as  thou  art  good  and  true,  present  my  child, 
ftnd  bring  her  to  me  at  last,  pure  and  unspotted  from  the 
world,  I  commit  her  to  thy  care,  and  I  hold  Jhee  to  thy 
many  promises, " 

While  her  growing  weakne^  made  it  apparent,  even  to 
her  husband,  that  she  could  not  be  moved,  and  he  was 
thus  induced  to  remain  in  his  present  home,  he  continued 
Steady  and  unrelenting  in  his  determination  that  no  acquaint- 
ances should  be  formed  with  the  new-comers.  Of  this  par- 
pose  Vera  and  her  mother  had  a  very  disheartening  illustra- 
tion about  the  middle  of  October, 

One  day,  just  as  they  were  about  to  sit  do^^^l  to  their 
meagre  dinner,  the  two  huge  dogs  bounded  out  from  the 
door-step,  with  fiercest  clamor. 

Mr.  Brown,  as  he  may  be  called  at  present,  sprang  uft 
and  was  only  in  time  to  prevent  a  conflict  between  a  stranger 
and  the  savage  beasts. 

Vera  also  ran  to  the  door,  in  order  to  see  the  cause  of 
the  alarm  and  her  heart  throbbed  quickly,  as  she  recognized 
in  the  stranger  the  young  man  who  had  surprised  her,  in 
the  manner  already  described,  while  fishing. 

•'  Back,  Tiger  and  Bull,"  said  their  master  ;  and,  as  the 


LEFT    TO   N'ATURE'S  CARE.  83 

dogs  reluctantly  obeyed,  he  advanced  with  a  dignity  which 
Saville  was  quick  to  recognize,  and  said,  coldly, 

' '  Have  you  any  special  business  with  me  ?' ' 

The  young  man  commenced  replying  suavely,  and  in  a 
manner  which  he  hoped  would  pave  the  v%'ay  to  an  acquaint- 
ance ;  but,  sail  more  coldly  and  sternly  came  the  interrupt- 
ing question  : 

"  Have  you  any  business  with  me,  sir?" 

*'  I  cannot  say  that  I  have,  save  that  as  a  temporary 
neighbor  I  would  be  glad  to  show  myself  neighborly." 

The  man  regarded  him  suspiciously,  but  continued,  with 
the  same  repelling  coldness, 

' '  You  have  the  bearing  of  a  gentleman. ' ' 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  and  the  character  and  standing  of  one," 

''  I  shall  put  that  assertion  to  the  test,"  was  the  forbid- 
ding response  ;  "  and  if  you  fail  to  make  it  good,  I  shall 
know  how  to  act  hereafter.  I  desire  seclusion  for  myself 
and  family.  This  cottage,  though  very  humble,  is  my 
castle,  and  I  regard  any  visits  to  it  or  to  this  locality  as  an 
intrusion." 

Saville  flushed  deeply,  for,  if  this  man  were  a  guilty  out- 
law, he  could  assume  a  hauteur  and  loftiness  which  were 
oppressive.  He  felt  almost  as  if  an  ancient  baron  were 
ordering  him,  as  a  poacher,  off  his  grounds.  But  in  the 
fece  of  Vera,  who  stood  excited,  tremblinof,  in  the  doorway, 
he  thought  he  detected  a  different  and  friendly  expression  ; 
so  he  made  one  more  effort  to  remove  the  suspicious  exclu- 
siveness  of  the  father. 

"  But  suppose  I  come  in  the  spirit  of  kindliness,"  he 
said. 

' '  I  thought  I  made  it  clear  that  I  desired  no  visits  what- 
ever," was  the  stern  reply. 

"You  are  unwise,  sir,"  said  Saville  with  corresponding 
haughtiness.     "  I  am  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  and  as 


84  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

such  might  have  extended  protection  to  you  and  >'OiBf 
family.  This  region  will  soon  become  fall  of  armed  men, 
and  how  can  yon  escape  visits  from  the  rade  soldiery,  who 
may  not  always  be  overscrupulous  ?" 

"  They  will  come  at  peril  to  life  and  limb,"  said  the  ma» 
savagely ;  and  he  began  to  show  symptoms  of  great  agita- 
tion. 

Saville  saw  that  the  young  girl's  eyes  had  overflowed  wilii 
tears,  that  her  hands  were  clasped,  and  that  her  whole  mail> 
ner  was  a  mute  appeal.  But  whether  it  was  to  leave  them 
at  once,  or  to  give  unasked,  the  protection  against  the 
danger  at  which  he  had  hinted,  and  which  her  father  had  so 
harshly  refused,  he  could  not  tell  He  also  saw  that  the 
man  was  becoming  excited  and  dangerous,  and  that  tbe 
dc^,  quickly  catching  their  master's  spirit,  were  bristlil^ 
toward  him.  Vera  sprang  down  with  words  of  rebuke,  and 
soon  had  the  fierce  animals  crouching  at  her  feet  As  she 
stood  between  them  in  her  simplicity  and  unconsciooi 
beauty,  tears  gemming  her  eyes  like  dew  upon  violets,  she 
made  a  picture  that  Saville  did  not  soon  foiget. 

With  a  silent  bow  and  smile  to  her,  which  she  returned 
by  a  grave  and  graceful  inclination,  he  turned  away,  and 
soon  disappeared  among  the  trees.  He  had  seen  enough, 
however,  to  kindle  his  vivid  imagination,  and  on  his  way 
back  among  the  hills,  in  search  of  game,  indulged  in  many 
wild  surmises  in  regard  to  the  people  who  so  resolutely 
secluded  themselves.  But  he  could  scarcely  fail  in  reaching 
the  conclusion  that  fear  was  the  motive,  and  that  the  roan 
was  hiding  from  the  consequences  of  some  act  of  the  past, 
the  discovery  of  which  would  lead  to  terrible  punishment 
It  was  still  more  certain  that  he  had  belonged  to  the  superior 
and  educated  classes,  for  his  unkempt  appearance  and  rude 
attire  could  not  disguise  his  proud  and  stately  bearing.  At 
the  same  timef  even  the  brief  glimpse  that  Saville  bad  caught 


LEFT   TO  NATURE'S   CARE.  «5 

of  the  externals  of  the  cabin,  proved  that  some  one  dwelt 
there  who  had  an  eye  and  a  love  for  beauty. 

The  rude  logs  were  prettily  disguised  by  crimson  festoons 
of  the  American  ivy.  Clumps  of  eglantine  with  equally 
brilliant  foliage  stood  on  either  side  of  the  open  door, 
through  which  he  could  see  a  little  of  the  rustic  decoration 
within.  The  impression,  however,  that  the  man  was  a 
criminal  chilled  his  desire  for  personal  acquaintance,  and 
save  some  generous  pity  that  the  fair  young  girl  should  be 
left  to  develop  under  such  forbidding  circum.stances,  he 
soon  became  indifferent  to  the  inmates  of  the  cabin  from 
which  he  had  been  so  rudely  repelled.  With  the  exception 
of  the  maiden,  the  other  inmates  were  probably  subjects  for 
the  detective  and  constable.  Whether  right  or  wrong, 
Saville  was  as  open  as  the  day,  and  had  no  taste  for  mysteries 
or  crime. 

But  the  results  of  his  attempted  visit  were  not  so  slight  or 
transient  in  the  little  cabin  among  the  mountains.  Vera, 
and  especially  her  mother,  were  bitterly  disappointed.  To 
the  latter  it  seemed  as  if  a  providential  opportunity  of  gain- 
ing some  hold  on  the  outside  world  had  been  lost ;  and 
when  her  husband  became  calmer,  she  so  remonstrated  with 
him  that  he  half  regretted  his  own  action.  But  the  trouble 
was  that  he  could  not  be  depended  on,  for  when  his  mind 
had  been  enabled  for  a  moment  to  struggle  toward  a  correct 
judgment,  another  dark  and  engulfing  wave  of  fear  Vv^ould 
sweep  over  it,  carrying  him  back  into  the  depths  of  his  old 
despondency  and  morbid  dread  of  strangers. 

But  the  remark  of  Saville,  that  the  region  would  soon  be 
filled  with  armed  men,  while  it  greatly  increased  his  uneasi- 
ness, also  kindled  a  faint  gleam  of  hope.  In  his  occasional 
expeditions  to  distant  villages  for  the  purpose  of  barter,  he 
had  heard  faint  mutterings  of  the  storm,  that  had  now  broken 
over  the  land.     The  only  hints  which  he  had  obtained  were 


86  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

from  the  casual  remarks  of  others,  for  he  had  feared  to  ask 
questions,  as  this  would  give  the  right  to  question  him.  He 
was  regarded,  at  the  few  places  where  he  traded,  as  an  odd, 
half-deranged  man,  and  received  but  little  thought  or  atten- 
tion. Indeed,  it  was  his  policy  to  assume  something  like 
imbecility  on  all  matters  save  that  of  securing  a  fair  return 
for  his  merchandise. 

The  few  expressions  which  he  had  happened  to  hear,  in- 
dicating trouble  between  England  and  her  colonies,  had 
made  but  little  impression  on  him,  however,  as  the  idea 
that  there  could  be  any  resistance  to  her  mighty  power  never 
entered  his  mind.  But  now  what  else  could  the  presence 
of  so  many  soldiers  mean,  save  resistance  ?  Were  the 
soldiers  that  had  already  come,  and  that  were  coming, 
under  British  rule  or  hostile  to  it  ?  If  they  were  English 
troops,  nothing  could  induce  him  to  remain.  If  they  were 
American  forces  in  armed  rebellion,  then  there  would  be 
hope  that  in  their  success  he  might  finally  escape  the  juris- 
diction of  English  law.  His  mind  became  so  far  aroused 
and  clear  that  he  was  enabled  to  act  intelligently,  though 
characteristically.  Instead  of  going  over  to  Constitution 
Island,  where  he  might  readily  have  learned  the  situatioHj 
he  prepared  a  large  pack  of  articles  for  barter,  and  started  for 
a  distant  village  down  the  river.  Here  he  assumed  his  old, 
stolid  manner  ;  but  he  heard  enough  to  so  stimulate  his 
curiosity  and  awaken  his  hopes  that  he  at  last  brought  him- 
self to  question  an  old  and  inoffensive  appearing  man  who 
was  working  alone  in  his  garden.  Learning  from  him  the 
principal  facts  which  had  thus  far  transpired,  and  the  open 
resistance  into  which  the  colonies  had  gradually  passed,  he 
started  for  home  in  a  state  of  wild  and  almost  exultant  ex- 
citement. At  first,  he  half  proposed  to  take  an  open  p«rt 
m  the  struggle.  But  long  before  he  reached  his  cabin,  the 
old  wave  of  morbid  fear  returned,  and  the  habit  of  secretive^ 


LEFT    TO  NATURE'S  CARE.  87 

ness,  and  disposition  to  shrink  from  every  one,  resumed 
their  mastery.  He  decided  to  remain  in  his  present  home 
as  a  post  of  observation. 

"  ri!  wait  and  see  what  headway  the  rebelUon  makes," 
he  muttered  ;  "for  if  it  fails  after  I  have  committed  myself 
to  it,  I  am  lost  utterly."  The  man  had  become  such  a 
tt'reck  of  his  former  self  that  his  only  thought  was  for  his 
own  personal  safety.  His  terrible  secret  had  seemingly 
blasted  every  generous  and  noble  trait  with  its  deadly  shade. 

During  his  absence  Vera  and  her  mother  ardently  hoped 
that  the  young  stranger  might  come  again.  Vera  even  went 
down  to  the  shore,  and  looked  wistfully  at  the  island  oppo- 
site, from  which  the  din  of  labor  on  the  fortifications  came 
faintly  across  the  river.  But  she  saw  not  the  one  to  whom 
she  now  felt  she  could  almost  find  courage  to  speak,  and 
ask  for  that  protection  which  he  had  intimated  they  might 
need. 

During  the  summer  and  autumn,  they  had  been  left 
utterly  alone.  Even  Vera,  in  her  youth  and  inexperience, 
had  become  alarmed  at  her  mother's  feebleness  and  hacking 
cough,  and  her  thoughtful  efforts  to  alleviate  and  help  were 
as  pathetic  as  they  were  beautiful.  She  felt  that  they  had  3 
very  trying  winter  before  them,  and  knew  that  her  father 
could  be  depended  upon  less  and  less  as  a  support  But 
she  induced  him  to  repair  the  cellar  under  the  cabin,  so 
that  the  vegetables  from  a  small  garden  might  be  stored 
securely.  She  also  had  persuaded  him  to  enlarge  a  spring 
near  the  house  into  a  little  pond,  and  in  this  her  skill 
enabled  her  to  place  quite  a  number  of  fish.  She  did  hef 
best  to  follow  the  example  of  her  wild  playmates  of  the 
woods,  that  were  busy  most  of  the  time  in  providing  against 
the  cold,  dark  days  to  come,  and  she  even  diminished  the 
squirrels'  hoards,  by  the  quantities  of  nuts  which  she  gath- 
ered and  dried  for  winter  use.  She  also  carefully  noted  the 
Roe— Vlil— E 


88  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

haunts  of  rabbits,  partridges,  and  quails,  and  prepared  traps 
and  snares  which  could  be  used  when  the  snow  covered  the 
ground. 

But,  as  the  autumn  winds  sighed  through  the  mountains, 
she  sighed  also  ;  for  a  strange  depression  and  boding  of  evil 
was  stealing  over  her.  Her  face,  which  had  been  full  oi 
sunshine  and  mirthfulness  even  in  darkest  daj'S,  grew  un- 
wontedJy  thoughtful  and  oppressed  with  care  ;  but  her  fea- 
tures were  none  the  less  lovely,  as  they  began  to  express 
womanly  solicitude  and  responsibility  instead  of  a  child's 
light-hearted  confidence.  In  her  mother's  presence  she  ever 
sought,  however,  to  maintain  her  cheerful  hopefulness. 
But  the  mother's  love  pierced  all  disguises,  and  it  was  one 
of  the  bitterest  drops  in  her  overflowing  cup  that  her  child 
should  be  so  early  and  heavily  burdened. 

The  bond  of  clinging  a^ection  appeared  to  grow  stronger 
and  tenderer  between  mother  and  daughter,  as  their  rela- 
tions toward  each  other  changed,  and  Vera  began  to  give 
the  failing  parent  the  care  she  had  once  received  herself. 
There  were  days  when  the  poor  woman  could  scarcely  leave 
her  bed,  and  then  Vera's  every  touch  was  a  caress.  But 
the  bracing  air  of  autumn  and  winter  appeared  to  agree  with 
the  invalid  better  than  the  relaxing  heat  of  summer.  The 
generous  diet  of  game  which  Vera  carefully  prepared  did 
much  also  to  keep  up  her  strength.  But  perhaps  her  gain 
in  vigor  was  due  to  the  element  of  hope  which  her  sympa- 
thetic spirit  caught  from  her  husband  ;  for  he  had  at  once 
informed  his  wife  of  the  struggle  that  v/as  commencing  with 
the  Power  he  dreaded,  and  both  felt  that  in  its  success 
would  come  a  calming  sense  of  security.  The  wife  urged 
her  husband  to  take  an  open  part  in  the  conflict,  correctly 
judging  that  daily  contact  with  others  would  be  the  best 
antidote  against  his  habit  of  morbid  brooding.  But  in  his 
unnaturally  developed  caution  and  shrinking  fear  of  dis» 


LEFT  TO  NATURE'S  CARE.  89 

covery,  the  man  was  not  equal  to  this,  and,  for  the  time, 
became  only  a  secret  and  anxious  watcher  of  the  events 
which  he  hoped  might  work  out  his  deUverance,  The  habit 
of  suspiciously  shunning  every  one  had  grown  to  be  a  dis- 
ease. Indeed,  so  warped  had  he  become  that  he  began  to 
dread  lest  his  wife — the  only  one  in  this  land  who  knew  his 
dire  secret — might  reveal  it  to  Vera  in  some  unguarded 
moment  ;  and  at  times  he  even  harshly  cautioned  her  against 
such  a  possibility. 

Thus  the  winter  passed  rather  sadly  and  drearily  away. 
Vera's  powers  were  taxed  to  their  utmost  as  nurse,  watcher, 
and  housekeeper.  Her  father  also  had  bad  days  when  noth- 
ing could  induce  him  to  leave  his  dusky  corner,  and  then 
her  hands  and  feet  were  pinched  with  cold,  as  she  visited  the 
traps  and  snares  among  the  hills,  carrying  the  fowling-piece 
also,  in  order  that  their  meagre  larder  might  not  become 
utterly  bare. 

In  the  midst  of  her  deepening  anxiety  and  increasing 
burdens  her  mystic  sympathy  with  nature  increased,  and  shs 
found  comfort  and  companionship  even  in  the  wintry  land- 
scape. Bible  ideas  and  imagery  blended  with  what  she  saw 
around  her.  As  with  the  lightness  of  a  fawn  she  bounded 
through  the  newly  fallen  snow,  she  would  exclaim  with  an 
ecstatic  thrill  of  hope, 

'*  My  robe,  one  day,  will  be  as  white  and  sparkling,  and 
the  gems  in  my  crown  brighter  than  the  icicle's  gleam  hang- 
ing over  yonder  ledge  of  rocks.  God  teaches  me,  even  in 
winter,  by  such  pretty  things,  what  He  is  preparing  for  His 
children." 

WTien  at  times  every  branch,  spray,  and  twig  was  encased 
with  snow,  and  the  evergreens  were  bending  beneath  their 
fleecy  burdens,  she  would  be  half  wild  with  delight  at  the 
beauty  of  the  scene,  and  would  cheer  her  mother  by  saying, 

"See  what  God  can  do  in  a  single  night     Won't  out 


9° 


NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 


mansions  in  heaven,  which  we  so  often  read  about,  be 
beautiful,  mother  ?  for  he  has  had  ever  so  many  years  in 
which  to  prepare  them.  Don't  you  think  he  is  making 
them  prettier  all  the  time  ?" 

"Yes,  Vera,"  her  mother  would  reply;  "as  we  grow- 
better,  God  makes  them  prettier.  Never  distrust  Him,  for 
you  see  what  He  can  do  even  in  this  world  which  is  so  full 
of  evil  and  trouble." 

Thus,  every  beautiful  object  in  nature  became  to  the 
young  girl  an  evidence  of  her  Heavenly  Father's  good -will 
and  love,  and  an  assurance  that  He  would  fulfill  at  last  all 
the  wonderful  promises  of  the  Bible.  And  dark  and  dreary 
days,  and  disagreeable  things,  were  expressions  of  the  evil 
in  the  world,  from  which  she  had  His  promise  also,  that 
she  should  be  protected,  and  finally  delivered. 

Often,  when  the  cold,  bitter  wind  was  blowing,  and  the 
trees  and  shrubbery  were  tossing  in  its  power,  she  would 
draw  a  slender  spray  with  its  securely  encased  buds  against 
her  glowing  cheeks,  as  she  said,  caressingly, 

"  Don't  fear  !  We  shall  be  taken  care  of.  Next  May 
will  be  like  last  May,  and  the  wind  wall  come  softly  from 
the  south." 

Again,  she  would  stand  in  the  snow  upon  a  violet  bank, 
and  call, 

"  Heigh-ho,  down  there,  tucked  away  in  your  winter 
bed  !     Do  you  ever  dream  of  me  in  your  sleep  .?' ' 

Thus  nature,  even  in  mid-winter,  suggested  to  her  child 
sleep  rather  than  death  ;  and  hope,  instead  of  fear  and  de- 
spair ;  and  when  her  heart  grew  heavy  and  full  of  vague 
forebodings  of  evil,  as  she  saw  her  mother's  weakness,  and 
her  father  so  deeply  enshrouded  in  gloom,  she  would  take 
her  trusty  gun  and  one  of  the  great  dogs,  and  spend  hours 
among  the  defiles  of  the  mountains,  finding  peace  and  good 
cheer,  where  to  another  would  have  been  only  blackness 


LEFT   TO  X A  TURK'S  CARE.  91 

.jid  desolation,  or  the  awful  solitude  and  grandeur  of  a 
mountain  landscape  in  winter.  While  Vera's  character  was 
simplicity  itself,  this  noble  companionship  with  things  that 
were  grand  and  large,  though  at  times  stem,  took  away 
utterly  the  elements  of  silliness  and  triviality  which  make 
many  young  girls  at  her  age  a  weariness  to  all  save  those  as 
empty  as  themselves.  And  the  sternness  of  many  scenes  was 
more  apparent  than  real ;  for  in  frowning  ledges  of  rocks 
Vera  found  cosy  nooks  in  which  she  was  protected  from  the 
winds  as  she  rested,  and  the  sun  would  often  light  up  the 
face  of  the  precipice,  as  a  smile  might  illumine  the  rugged 
features  of  one  who  seemed  harsh  and  cold  in  nature,  but 
who,  on  closer  acquaintance,  would  be  found  to  possess 
traits  that  are  kindly  and  gentle. 

The  winter  passed,  and  Vera  was  being  prepared  for  the 
part  she  must  take  in  life — for  temptations  and  ordeals 
which  would  test  the  strength  and  integrity  of  the  strongest 
Her  teachers  were  not  such  as  the  fashionable  would  choose 
or  desire — sickness  and  sorrow  at  home,  and  the  solitude  of 
wintri-  mountains  without  ;  and  yet  these  stern-visaged  in- 
structors made  their  pupil  more  sweet,  unselfish,  and 
womanly  tstxy  day.  They  endowed  her  with  patience 
and,  at  the  same  time,  inspired  her  with  hope.  Moreover, 
she  had  the  two  grand  books  of  the  world,  the  Bible  and 
Shakspeare  ;  and  often  as  she  watched  in  the  comer  of  the 
wide  fireplace,  sh^  half  read  and  half  brooded  over  their 
glowing  pages,  until  her  own  mind  was  full  of  thronging 
thoughts  and  fancies,  which,  in  their  beauty  and  character, 
were  at  least  akin  to  those  she  read. 

Still,  she  often  had  a  sense  of  loneliness,  and  the  natural 
craving  for  a  wider  companionship  and  sympathy.  From 
the  day  on  which  she  had  at  first  met  Saville,  there  had 
been  in  her  mind  a  vague,  faint  unrest,  and  a  desire  to 
know  more  of  the  world  to  which  he  belonged.      His 


92  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

attempted  visit  had  greatly  increased  this  desire,  and  concen- 
trated her  thoughts  upon  him  as  the  only  one  concerning 
whom  she  had  any  knowledge,  or  who  had  shown  any 
interest  in  her.  She  often  found  herself  vividly  recalling  the 
two  occasions  on  which  she  had  seen  him,  and  which  had 
ended  so  unsatisfactorily.  His  manner,  appearance,  and 
his  words  and  tones  even,  were  dwelt  upon  ;  and  he  became 
to  her  like  one  of  Shakspeare's  knightly  and  heroic  char- 
acters— half  real,  half  ideal.      She  would  end  by  sighing, 

"  He  has  probably  gone  away,  and  thinks  of  us  only  as 
rude,  ill-mannered  mountaineers." 

As  spring  advanced  her  mother  failed  rapidly,  and  Vera's 
heart  and  hands  became  too  full  for  thoughts  of  aught  else 
save  the  deepest  and  tenderest  solicitude.  Old  Gula  shook 
her  head  more  frequently  and  ominously,  and  Vera  had  the 
most  painful  misgivings. 

One  day,  after  her  mother  had  recovered  from  a  terrible 
paroxysm  of  coughing,  she  followed  the  old  negress  to  the 
little  kitchen,  and  asked, 

"  Why  do  }0u  shake  your  head  so  discouragingly .?" 

"  Ise  a  tinkin'  dat  missis  is  a  hearin'  voices  as  well  as  ole 
Gula. " 

"  What  voices  .?" 

"  You'se  can't  understan',  chile  ;  but  you  will,  some 
day.      Dey  come  to  de  homesick  like." 

"  Where  do  they  come  from  ?" 

"  Why,  from  home,  honey.  You'se  mudder  is  like  ole 
Gula — far  from  home.  I  heerd  her  a  talkin'  in  her  sleep 
of  a  green,  flowery  island,  way  off  'yond  de  big  water.  She, 
no  more'n  ole  Gula,  hab  allers  lived  'mongdese  cold,  stony 
mountains.     An'  now  de  voices  is  a  callin*  her  home," 

"  Do  you  think — do  you  think  mother — oh  I  can  mother 
die  ?"   said  Vera,  in  a  terrified  whisper. 

"  Dunno  nufiin  'bout  dyin',  child  ;  don't  tink  dere's  any 


LEFT    TO  NATURE'S  CARE.  93 

such  ting.  But  some  day  you'll  find  dis  ole  body  lyin*  cold 
and  still,  but  'twon't  be  Gula,  'twon't  be  me.  I'll  be  far 
away,  a  followin'  de  voices  ober  de  big  wabes,  where  de 
floatin'  miseries  go,  and  Gula  will  be  home  where  de  sun 
shines  warm  all  de  time,  and  de  palm-trees  wave.  Oh  ! — 
oh  ! — ole  Gula's  heart  is  sore  ;  sore  wid  waitin'."  And 
the  poor  creature  threw  her  apron  over  her  head,  and  rocked 
herself  back  and  forth  in  ail  the  tropical  demonstrativeness 
of  grief. 

But  Vera's  heart  was  sore  also,  and  finding  that  she  was 
losing  self-control,  she  hastened  out  into  the  twilight,  and 
sitting  down  upon  a  rock  back  of  the  cabin,  sobbed  as  if 
her  heart  would  break. 

Gula  soon  forget  her  own  grief  in  the  young  girl's  distress, 
and  removing  her  apron,  her  quaint,  wrinkled  face  became 
full  of  commiseration.  At  last  she  rose  and  hobbled  to  her, 
and  laying  her  hand  on  the  bowed  head,  said  in  husky  tones, 

"  Dare,  dare,  po'  young  missis  ;  don't  take  on  so.  You 
mustn't  be  sorry  dat  ycu'se  mudder's  goin'  home.  When 
she  gits  back  where  she  lived  afore,  she  won't  be  sick  any 
mo'." 

"  Oh  1 — oh  ! — oh  ! — there's  no  use  of  trying  to  be  blind 
any  more.  Mother  is  going  hom. ;  but  not  to  England — 
to  a  better  home  than  that.  But,  oh  ! — to  be  left  alone— 
what  shall  I  do  .''  how  can  I  bear  it  ?" 

Calming  herself  by  a  great  effort,  she  at  last  returned  to 
her  miOther,  who  had  surmised  her  daughter's  distress,  and 
looked  at  her  so  wistfully  that  Vera  again  lost  self-control, 
and  kneeling  by  the  bed,  gave  way  to  an  agony  of  grief. 

"  O  mother, "  she  sobbed,  "  how  can  you  leave  me  .?" 

The  poor  woman  gave  her  child  a  startled  look,  and  then, 
more  fully  than  ever  before,  realized  the  inevitable  separa 
tion  soon  to  come  ;  she  also  saw  that  the  sad  truth  could  be 
no  longer  concealed  from  Vera      Reaching  out  her  feeble 


94  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

hands,  she  took  her  child  into  her  arms,  and  they  wept  to- 
gether till  both  were  exhausted.  Then  the  mother  whispered 
the  old  sweet  refrain  that  had  soothed  and  sustained  her 
through  so  many  troubled  years  : 

' '  *  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid, 
in  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions' — I  think  I  shall 
soon  be  in  mine,  Vera  ;  and  I  will  watch  and  wait  for  you." 

'*  I  don't  want  another  mansion,  mother.  I'll  ask  God 
to  let  me  live  with  you.  One  mansion  will  be  enough  for 
us  both.     Oh,  why  can't  I  go  with  you  V 

"  Your  father  needs  you  here,  Vera.  Oh,  my  DOor  hus- 
band !  For  my  sake  he  fell  into  this  gulf  of  darkness.  Had 
it  not  been  for  me " 

*'  Hush  !"  said  a  stern  voice  ;  and  mother  and  child  be- 
came very  still,  the  one  oppressed  by  a  dark  secret  known, 
and  the  other  by  the  same  secret  unknown,  but  which  the 
girl,  even  in  her  inexperience  and  ignorance  of  evil,  began 
to  realize  must  be  very  sad  and  dreadful.  She  retired  for  a 
time  to  her  little  grotto-like  apartment  in  the  side  of  the  hill, 
and  then  came  back  calm  and  strengthened,  and  entered 
upon  her  patient  watch. 

The  husband,  who  had  been  a  silent,  and,  up  to  the  time 
of  his  harsh  interruption,  a  forgotten  witness  of  the  scene 
just  described,  was  terribly  agitated  by  contending  emotions. 
The  words  he  had  heard  had  aroused  him  from  his  deep 
preoccupation,  and  he  too  began  to  realize  for  the  first  time 
that  his  wife  might  be  near  her  end — that  this  was  more  than 
a  temporary  illness.  His  mind  was  not  so  utterly  warped 
but  that  he  foresaw  his  loss  with  the  keenest  anguish.  He 
had  loved  this  faded,  dying  woman  with  al!  the  strength  of 
his  nature,  and  the  thought  that  she  could  die  and  leave 
him  had  never  been  entertained.  But  now  it  came  like  a 
revelation — a  lightning  flash  into  his  darkness,  making  ever}''- 
thing  the  darker  thereafter.     At  one  moment  his  heart  would 


LEFT   TO  .VATURE'S  CARE.  95 

jrearn  toward  her  with  an  infinite  tenderness  and  remorse  ; 
and  then  the  thought  would  come  surging  up,  born  of  his 
guilty  secret  and  demoralizing  fear,  ihat  if  she  died,  no  one, 
at  least  in  this  land,  would  know  the  past.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  arrested  her  just  as  she  was  on  the  point  oi 
revealing  the  secret  to  his  child.  She  might  do  so  still. 
He  remembered  that  the  dying  were  prone  to  unburden 
their  hearts  to  some  one.  He  determined  that  this  must  be 
prevented  at  all  hazards  ;  and  in  spite  of  his  morbid  suspi- 
ciousness, he  still  had  such  trust  in  the  woman  who  had 
been  so  true  to  him,  as  to  be  satisfied  that  if  she  gave  him 
her  solemn  promise  to  be  dumb — never  to  tell  even  Vera— 
she  would  keep  her  word. 

When  their  daughter  had  left  them  alone,  he  said  abrupt- 
ly, and  yet  in  a  tone  that  trembled, 

"  Esther,  are  you  going  to  die  ?' ' 

"  Yes,  Guy,"  said  the  wife,  wearily  and  faintly. 

After  a  moment,  and  still  more  tremblingly,  the  man 
said, 

' '  Will  you  protect  me  to  the  last,  as  you  have  in  all  these 
years  ?" 

"  Yes,  Guy. " 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  word,  which  you  have  nevei 
broken,  not  to  tell  even  Vera?" 

"  Yes,  Guy  ;  not  even  Vera." 

•'  Will  you  swear  it  ?"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"  God  is  my  witness,  I  will  be  silent.  The  deed  was  not 
done  in  malice — God  will  forgive  you,  Guy.  Oh,  let  the 
'  Lamb  of  God  which  taketh  away  the  sins  of  the  world  ' 
lift  the  load  from  your  heart.  He  has  from  mine.  But 
how — how  can  1  leave  you  and  my  darling  child  .?  And 
yet  you  mav  be  better  off  without  me.  I  fear  I  have  be- 
come a  burden.  " 

The  man  gave  way,  and  throwing  himself  down  on  his^ 


96  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEAR7\ 

knees  beside  his  wife,  groaned  and  sobbed  in  a  perfect  tem* 
pest  of  grief. 

"  r  ve  blighted  your  life,  Esther, ' '  he  cried.  ' '  Think  what 
you  might  have  been.     You  might  have  dwelt  in  a  palace." 

"  Hush,  Guy,"  said  his  wife  solemnly.  "  If  all  could 
be  done  over  again  from  that  night  when  you  came  and  told 
me  what  had  happened,  I  would  act  just  the  same.  1  loved 
you  then.     I  love  you  now,  and  God  loves  you." 

"  What  kind  of  a  God  is  he  that  permits  such  horrors  V* 
groaned  the  wretched  man,  showing  that  even  the  love  of 
the  unbelieving  can  in  such  emergencies  do  little  else  than 
wound  and  pain  those  who  cling  to  them. 

"  He  is  the  God  who  only  can  deliver  from  such  horrors, 
and  remedy  the  fatal  mistakes  and  deeds  of  this  life,"  said 
his  wife  eagerly. 

"  How  has  He  remedied  them  ?  You  are  dying,  and 
we  will  be  left  alone  in  this  dreary  wilderness,  in  which  we 
must  cower  and  hide  till  we  also  die." 

*'  O  Guy,  Guy,  time  is  short,  and  eternity  very  long. 
So  trust,  so  live,  that  all  may  be  well  hereafter.  I  shall  wait 
for  you  and  Vera  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  heaven  will  not 
begin  till  )'ou  both  come  to  me." 

The  man  was  silent,  and  became  more  composed. 

*'  And  Guy,"  continued  his  wife  faintly,  for  she  was 
growing  very  weary,  *'  I  fear  this  utter  seclusion  is  unv/ise 
and  unsafe.  It  may  be  fatal  to  Vera's  happiness.  Go  out 
and  take  an  open  part  in  this  conflict  for  liberty.  You  will 
be  your  old  self  after  you  have  mingled  awhile  with  your 
fellow  men. " 

**  Not  yet,"  groaned  the  man.      "  I  dare  not  yet." 

The  wife  sighed  deeply,  but  said  no  more.  But  her  sore 
heart  was  comforted  when  her  husband  rose  and  for  the  first 
time  for  years  bent  over  her,  giving  a  kiss  and  gentle  careae, 
as  he  said, 


LEFT    TO   NATURE'S   CARE.  97 

"  Pcor  little  wife,  you  have  been  faithfulness  itself." 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  dusky  corner  ;  but  the  watch- 
ful glitter  of  his  eyes  was  often  dimmed  with  tears  ;  and 
Vera  found  on  her  return  that  her  mother  had  fallen  into 
the  deep  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion. 

The  spring  night  deepened  and  darkened,  but  a  shadow 
darker  than  the  night  had  fallen  across  the  cottage  ;  for  all 
at  last  realized  that  death  was  near.  Toward  morning  the 
man  dozed  in  his  chair,  but  Vera's  eyes  were  fixed  with  a 
wide  and  fearful  gaze  into  that  dread  future  when  she  should 
be  alone  in  the  world  that  to  her  was  so  strange  and  unex- 
plored. More  than  once  the  thought  crossed  her  mind  in 
reference  to  Saville, 

"  If  he  knew,  would  he  come.'" 

And  yet  all  through  that  interminable  night,  she  was  sus- 
tained and  comforted  by  the  memory  of  One  who  she  felt 
sure  would  know  and  care. 

But  in  the  light  of  the  lovely  May  morning,  and  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  her  mother  seem.ed  a  little  stronger  and 
easier,  hope  revived. 

"Father,  I  think  a  surgeon  might  help  mother,"  said 
Vera  with  decision. 

The  man  gave  his  daughter  a  startled  look,  and  her  words 
had  evidently  awakened  a  sudden  conflict  in  his  mind.  But 
his  aroused  and  better  nature  prevailed. 

"Perhaps  he  might,"  he  faltered;  "perhaps  he 
might." 

"  Then  v.'here  can  one  be  found  V 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  room  a  moment,  then  cast- 
ing a  compassionate  look  at  his  wife,  muttered, 

"She  shall  have  the  chance,  cost  me  what  it  may," 
Then  aloud  to  Vera — "  There  is  no  doubt  a  surgeon  at  the 
garrison  on  the  Island.  " 

'  *  I  will  go  for  him  at  once, ' '  said  Vera. 


98  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART. 

"  Will  you — will  you  go  ?"  said  her  father  with  an  air  of 
great  relief. 

' '  Yes,  if  I  could  only  keep  mother  with  us,  I  would  go 
anywhere  and  face  anything." 

The  poor  woman  smiled  faintly,  but  shook  her  head. 

But  old  Gula  barred  Vera's  exit,  till  she  had  finished  her 
morning  bowl  of  bread  and  milk. 

"  You'se  not  a  sperrit,  honey,  do'  you'se  growin'  to  look 
mighty  like  one. "  Old  Gula  had  considerable  sense  still 
in  spite  of  her  weird  ways. 

"  I  will  take  our  little  skiff  out  of  its  hiding-place  and 
launch  it  for  you, "  said  her  father  ;  "  and  I  will  be  on  the 
watch  with  my  rifle  all  the  time  to  see  that  no  harm  comes 
to  you. ' ' 

In  less  than  an  hour  Vera's  light  shell  shot  out  of  a  little 
cove  above  the  point  of  land  opposite  Constitution  Island, 
and  was  soon  dancing  on  the  waves  raised  by  the  southern 
breeze  blowing  against  the  tide. 

Saville  was  engaged  as  usual,  directing  the  work  upon 
the  fortifications,  when  a  casual  glance  toward  the  river  re- 
vealed to  him  the  approaching  skiff.  Its  occupant  so  puz- 
zled him  that  he  hastened  for  his  glass,  and  soon  recognized 
the  shy  maiden  who  had  eluded  him  on  the  point  just  op- 
posite, and  whom  he  had  half  forgotten.  But  now  she 
seemed  coming  boldly  to  the  shore  a  little  below  where  he 
stood.  As  Vera  looked  around  and  saw  who  it  was,  she 
seemed  startled,  and  rested  on  her  oars. 

**  Are  you,  too,  afraid  of  me.?"  asked  Saville  kindly. 

Her  reply  was  a  few  vigorous  strokes  which  brought  her 
boat  to  his  feet,  and  then  rising  steadily,  she  stepped  lightly 
to  the  shore,  before  he  could  offer  his  hand. 

"  You  see  I  trust  you,  sir,"  she  said  simply,  as  she  stood 
tremblingly  before  him  with  downcast  eyes. 

"  And  am  I  such  an  ogre  that  you  fled  from  me  once- 


LEFT  TO  NATURE'S  CARE.  99 

and  now  tremble  before  me  as  if  I  might  eat  you  up? 
Though  if  I  were  an  ogre  I  should  be  sorely  tempted  to  fall 
to  ;  for  I  doubt  if  one  ever  sat  down  to  a  daintier  meal." 

The  young  girl's  eyes  overflowed  with  tears,  as  her  onlj 
/eply  to  this  light  badinage. 

"  You  are  in  trouble,"  said  Saville  quickly,  and  in  a  very 
different  tone. 

' '  Yes, ' '  was  all  that  Vera  could  say. 

"  Tell  me  what  1  can  do  for  you  ?" 

Putting  her  hand  upon  her  bosom  to  still  its  wild  throb- 
bing, caused  by  embarrassment,  excitement,  and  her  violent 
exercise,  she  at  last  was  able  to  say, 

"  Is  there—I  would  see  a  surgeon." 

"  Sit  down,  my  child,  and  rest.  Do  not  be  afraid  ;  yoe 
may  trust  me  fully.     I  will  bring  the  surgeon  to  you. " 

"  I  am  much  beholden  to  you  for  your  courtesy,"  said 
Vera,  naturally  falling  into  the  quaint  language  of  the  bock 
with  which  she  was  so  familiar,  and  whose  courtly  phtBseoi- 
ogy  seemed  to  her  appropriate  in  addressing  a  stranger. 

Saville  was  interested  in  the  contrast  between  her  stately 
words  and  simple,  grateful  manner,  for  she  was  much  re- 
lieved at  finding  that  she  need  not  face  the  stare  cf  the 
garrison. 

Calling  one  of  his  men,  Saville  told  him  to  stand  guard, 
and  permit  no  one  to  approach  his  protegee,  and  then  hast» 
ened  for  the  surgeon.  Neither  he  nor  the  man  who  stood 
mechanically  at  his  post,  though  with  many  a  curious  glance 
at  the  strange  visitor,  realized  that  their  good  behavior  was 
greatly  to  their  advantage  ;  for  if  they  had  been  capable  of 
anything  else,  an  unerring  rifle  would  have  spoken  from 
the  opposite  shore. 

Saville  soon  returned  with  a  stout,  burly,  but  kindly- 
featured  man,  who,  on  learning  Vera's  errand,  looked  wi& 
dismay  at  the  slight  skifL 


3fOO  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"Look  ye  here,  my  child,"  he  said  brusquely,  "I'm 
not  a  fairy  like  yourself,  and  can't  swim.  Did  you  imagine 
you  could  take  a  fully  developed  surgeon  across  the  river  in 
that  shell  ?  I  wouldn't  venture  in  it  for  twelve  months'  pay 
in  advance. ' ' 

Vera  turned  her  face,  full  of  distress  and  disappointment, 
in  mute  appeal  to  Saville,  who  immediately  said,  cordially, 

"  That's  right  ;  you  can  trust  me  to  keep  my  promise  of 
help  ;  so  don't  spoil  your  pretty  eyes  with  tears.  You  can 
lead  the  way  in  your  skiff,  and  I  will  take  this  healing  mon- 
ster over  in  a  pontoon  boat,  or  ship-of-the-line,  so  that  he 
be  kept  from  the  element  he  most  dreads.  But  wait  a  mo- 
ment, and  I'll  get  you  something  that  will  do  your  mother 
more  good  than  all  his  medicines,"  and  he  hastened  to  his 
quarters,  and  brought  Vera  a  bottle  of  French  brandy. 
"There,"  he  said,  "  I  put  that  in  your  charge  ;  for  it  won't 
do  to  trust  the  doctor  with  it.  He  will  tell  your  mother 
how  to  use  it,  but  do  not  let  him  show  her." 

But  not  a  glimmer  of  a  smile  came  into  Vera's  face  at 
Saville' s  light  talk.  Indeed,  it  grated  harshly  on  her  ears, 
as  she  remembered  her  mother's  critical  state. 

"  Now,  cheer  up,"  added  Saville  kindly,  "  and  lead  the 
way.  If  our  good  doctor  is  helpless  on  the  water,  he  is 
skillful  on  the  land,  and  no  doubt  will  soon  restore  youJ 
mother  to  health. " 

Vera,  whose  sore  heart  was  in  such  need  of  sympathy,  lost 
her  control  at  Saville' s  kindly  tones  and  manner,  and  burst- 
ing into  tears,  said, 

"  I  fear  mother  is  sick  unto  death  ;"  and  turning  hastily 
sprang  into  her  little  boat,  and  was  soon  out  in  the  stream, 
where  she  kept  the  light  craft  waiting  in  position,  with  the 
care  and  precision  of  a  water-fowl. 

Saville' s  pontoon  proved  to  be  a  handsomely  modeled 
boat  ot  his  own,  which  he  kept  for  his  private  pleasure  0£ 


LEFT  TG  NATURES  CARE.  ICl 

for  patroling  the  river  should  occasion  require,  and  he  soon 
struck  out  vigorously  after  Vera's  guiding  skiff.  She  led 
them  to  a  point  from  which  the  ascent  to  the  cottage  could 
be  made  vi^ith  comparative  ease.  Saville  was  about  to  ac- 
company them,  having  again  become  interested  in  the  unique 
character  of  the  maiden,  and  feeUng  assured  that  if  the  cabin 
was  the  hiding-place  of  crime,  none  of  its  occupants  could 
be  vulgar  criminals  ;  while  the  thought  of  evil  was  not  to  be 
entertained  in  regard  to  the  maiden.  But  Vera  arrested  his 
Steps,  by  saying,  with  painful  embarrassment, 

"  Father  said  I  must  bring  no  one  save  the  surgeon." 

Saville 's  quick  spirit  was  hurt,  and  he  flushed  resentfully. 
Vera  felt  herself  cruelly  trammeled,  but  was  unable  to  see 
how  she  could  explain  the  apparently  rude  requital  of  his 
kindness.  Her  troubled  face,  however,  almost  instantly 
disarmed  him,  and  he  saw  that  her  words  were  not  at  all 
prompted  by  her  own  feelings  ;  and  when  she  suddenly 
stepped  up  to  him,  and  said  in  a  low  tone. 

'*  'Charity  suffereth  long  and  is  kind,'  "  he  took  her 
hand  and  answered  gently, 

*'  Charity  also  *  thinketh  no  evil. '  You  are  a  good  giri, 
though  you  are  rather  odd.  Good-by,  and  don't  worry 
about  me.     May  your  mother  soon  get  well. " 

"  And  may  God  requite  thy  kindness, "  Vera  said  so  ear- 
nestly, that  for  the  moment  he  felt  as  if  she  had  appealed  to 
One  who  had  an  existence.  But  a  moment  later,  after  she 
was  gone,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  soliloquized, 

"  That's  the  way  it  always  is — crime  and  superstition  go 
together.  That  girl's  parents,  who  no  doubt  are  hiding  from 
the  constable,  are  very  religious,  and  have  taught  this  poOT 
child  their  pious  jargon.  Still  she  seems  to  have  the  natural 
grace  to  use  it  with  skill  and  taste.  She  is,  indeed,  very 
odd,  and  her  seeming  familiarity  with  the  two  greatest  works 
of  fiction  in  the  world  is  unaccountable  in  one  so  young 


I02  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

and  isolated.  I  must  find  some  means  of  propitiating  her 
churlish  father  ;  foi  I  would  like  to  pursue  this  strange  ac- 
quaintance further. " 

The  surgeon's  practiced  eye  at  once  saw  that  Vera's  moth- 
er was  in  the  last  stages  of  consumption,  and  to  the  ques- 
tioning and  entreating  eyes  that  were  turned  upon  him, 
could  only  shake  his  head  and  say, 

"  Neither  I  nor  any  one  else  can  do  much  for  you,  mad- 
am ;  you  must  prepare  for  a  better  world. " 

Vera  gave  a  faint  cry,  as  if  she  had  received  a  mortal 
wound,  and  was  about  to  give  way  to  her  grief,  when  her 
mother  restrained  her  by  saying, 

"  Be  calm,  darling,  for  my  sake.  It  is  just  as  I  supposed. 
Let  us  patiently  submit  to  Gk)d's  will. " 

"That's  a  good  child,"  added  the  kindly  surgeon. 
*•  Try  to  control  yourself  and  listen  to  me,  and  you  can 
make  your  mother's  last  days  much  easier;"  and  he  gave 
lull  directions,  and  left  alleviating  remedies.  "  But  Savil'e 
was  right,"  he  concluded,  "the  brandy  will  do  more  to 
sustain  your  mother  at  times  than  anything  else.  You 
needn't  come  back  with  me.  I  can  find  my  way  to  the 
boat." 

The  doctor's  visit  had  not  been  so  brief  but  that  he  had 
been  much  impressed  by  the  mother's  refinement,  and  the 
appearance  of  the  cottage. 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,"  he  said  to  Saville  on  his 
return,  "  those  people  there  are  very  far  from  being  ordinary 
mountaineers." 

Thus  the  young  man's  interest  was  still  further  stimulated, 
and  he  resolved,  though  with  no  motive  of  vulgar  curiosity, 
if  possible,  to  penetrate  the  mystery. 

The  lovely  spring  day  without,  was  a  dark  and  dreary 
one  within  the  cabin,  for  the  last  hope  of  recovery  had  van- 
ished.    The  husband  sank  into  the  deepest  gloom,    from 


LEFT   TO  NATURE'S  CARE.  I03 

which  nothing  could  arouse  him  ;  but  he  was  unwontedly 
tender  and  thoughtful  of  his  wife.  From  that  day  he  so  man- 
aged and  provided  for  the  family  that  Vera  could  give  all  her 
time  to  the  sick  room.  But  this  seclusion  from  her  out- 
door life,  combined  with  her  broken  rest  and  burden  of  sor- 
row, told  heavily  on  the  young  girl,  and  she  was  beginning 
to  look  almost  like  the  ministering  spirit  Gula  had  spoken 
of.  The  mother  would  often  urge  her  to  go  out  and  take 
the  air,  but  Vera  would  always  reply,  in  the  pathetic  words 
of  one  whom  in  simplicity  and  fidelity  she  resembled,  "  En^ 
treat  me  not  to  leave  thee." 

And  yet  it  was  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  the  dying 
woman  that  her  husband  so  provided  for  the  household  as 
to  leave  her  beloved  child  a  continuous  watcher  at  her  bed- 
side ;  for  had  Vera  been  compelled,  as  had  often  been  the 
case  in  the  past,  to  spend  much  of  her  time  roaming  the 
hills  and  following  the  brooks  in  order  to  keep  up  a  supply 
of  food,  the  cup  of  her  bitterness  would  have  overflowed. 
As  well  as  she  could,  in  view  of  her  own  ignorance  of  the 
world  and  the  peculiarities  of  their  situation,  she  tried  to 
advise  and  guard  her  child  in  reference  to  the  future. 

"  Let  yourname,"  she  said  one  day,  "  which  your  father 
gave  you  because  he  said  I  had  been  true  to  him,  express 
vour  character.  Be  true  to  your  God  and  your  faith,  be 
true  to  my  poor  teachings  and  your  own  pure  womanlf 
nature.  Let  the  Bible  guide  you  in  all  things,  and  then 
you  will  always  have  peace  in  your  heart,  and  find  sympathy 
in  nature  without.  But  rest  assured,  Vera,  however  wise 
and  greatly  to  your  advantage  anything  may  seem,  if  your 
Bible  is  against  it,  do  not  hesitate  to  turn  away,  for  it  would 
cot  end  wsll.  Keep  thy  heart  with  all  diligence.  When  it 
troubles  you — when  your  old  playmates,  the  innocent  flow- 
ers, look  at  you  reproachfully,  something  will  be  wrong. 
Keep  true,  my  darling,  and  our  separation  won' t  be  long. 


I04  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

But,  oh  I— how  can  I  leave  you  in  the  world,  so  unshielded 
and  alone  ?  O  Thou  v/ho  callest  thyself  a  '  covenant-keep- 
ing God,*  fail  not  my  child. " 

Again,  at  another  time  she  said,  ' '  Vera,  one  of  the  most 
painful  things  in  your  future  lot  will  be  that  you  cannot  trust 
the  judgment  of  your  father.  Indeed,  you  will  have  to  be 
his  guardian  and  protector  more  truly  than  he  will  be  yours. 
Be  very  tender  and  patient  with  him,  for  my  sake  as  well 
as  from  your  own  love,  and  yet  be  firm  when  your  own  and 
his  interests  require  it.  I  do  not  think  this  utter  seclusion 
wise  or  safe.  It  will  draw  rather  than  avert  suspicion  and 
trouble." 

'•  Why  does  father  shrink  so  from  strangers  ?  Though  I 
have  often  asked,  you  have  never  told  me  much  about  your 
old  life  in  England.'*' 

"  Well,  my  darling,  you  must  be  content  to  know  little, 
for  your  life  will  be  burdened  enough,  I  fear,  with  your  own 
tiO'iibles,  and  I  would  not  add  to  them  those  of  the  past. 
Let  it  satisfy  you  to  know  that  your  father  met  vrlth  a  sudden 
and  great  misfortune,  and  was  compelled  to  leave  his  native 
land.  I  loved  him,  and  followed  him,  as  I  would  again,  if 
I  were  free  to  choose.  But,  Vera,  he  took  me  to  a  minister 
of  God  before  we  left  England,  and  with  this  plain  ring,  and 
with  sacred  words,  we  were  joined  in  holy  wedlock.  I  had 
thought  to  be  buried  with  this  ring,  but  it  can  serve  better 
uses.  I  now  put  it  on  your  hand,  as  a  kind  of  charm 
against  evil.  Give  no  man  any  rights,  Vera  ;  permit  not 
even  a  caressing  touch  from  one  that  you  may  even  love, 
unless  he  will  wed  you  with  your  dead  mother's  ring,  and 
in  the  presence  of  God's  minister,  in  accordance  with  the 
teachings  of  God's  book."  And  she  placed  the  plain  gold 
band  upon  Vera's  finger. 

Did  not  God  inspire  the  act? 

Of  course  Vera  had  spoken  often  of  Saville's  kindness,  and 


LEFT    TO   NATURE'S   CARE.  105 

the  mother  seemed  to  have  a  presentiment  that  he  might  havs 
much  influence  upon  her  aaughter's  destiny.  "  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen  him,  for  it  is  said  that  the  dying  often  have 
great  insight  into  character,"  she  sighed,  one  day,  as  Vera 
v«ras  speaking  gratefully  of  his  words  and  manner  ;  and  the 
girl  deeply  regretted  that  she  had  not  permitted  him  to  come. 
"  If  he  ever  does  seek  your  acquaintance,  find  out  if  he  is 
true,  above  all  other  things.  If  truthfulness  is  wanting,  you 
can  depend  on  nothing  else.  I  pray  God  that  he,  or  some 
other  strong,  honest  friend  may  be  raised  up  for  you  ;  for 
when  I  remember  the  words,  '  This  region  will  soon  be  full 
of  armed  men,'  my  heart  fails  me.  I  fear  your  father's 
manner  will  only  draw  suspicion  and  hostility." 

Thus  the  dying  mother  tried  to  counsel  Vera  against  the 
time,  when,  though  still  a  child,  she  should  be  entirely  de- 
pendent for  guidance  on  her  own  judgment  and  conscience. 
After  all  hope  of  life  had  been  removed  by  the  surgeon's 
visit,  she  failed  quite  rapidly,  until  at  last  her  life  seemed  but 
a  breath,  that  might  cease  at  any  moment.  She  felt  that  her 
end  was  very  near,  and  one  day,  in  the  latter  part  of  May, 
would  not  permit  her  husband  to  leave  the  house.  Still, 
she  slept  most  of  the  time,  only  rousing,  now  and  then,  to 
give  the  watchers  a  faint  smile.  The  man  sat  most  of  the 
time  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  overwhelmed  with 
remorse  and  gloom.  But  Vera's  eyes  were  continually  fixed 
on  her  mother's  face,  as  if  she  feared  her  treasure  might 
vanish  should  she  turn  away  an  instant. 

As  the  sun  sank  below  the  mountains,  the  sleeper  aroused, 
and  her  face  was  so  peaceful  and  painless  that  Vera  said  : 
"  You  are  better,  mother." 

"  Yes,  darling,  I  shall  soon  be  well.     Where's  old  Gula .?" 
Vera  called  her,  and  the  aged  negress,  with  her  wrinkled 
face  working  strangely,  stood  at  her  bedside. 

"  Good-by,    Gula.     Oh  !    that  aiBong  your  voices  you 


lo6  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

could  hear  that  of  our  Saviour,  saying,  '  Come  unto  me,  and 
I  will  give  you  rest.'  I  shall  wait  and  watch  for  you,  too, 
my  poor  old  friend." 

"  You'se  will  git  home  'fore  ole  Gula,  but  I'se  a  goin' 
soon — wery  soon."  And  the  poor  old  creature  threw  her 
apron  over  her  head,  and  going  back  to  the  door-step,  rocked 
back  and  forth,  crooning  a  low,  continuous  wail  of  sorrow. 

"  Guy,"   said  the  wife. 

Her  husband  came  and  took  her  hand,  already  cold  with 
approaching  death.  She  fixed  her  large  and  unnaturally 
bright  eyes  upon  him  while  he  trembled  like  an  aspen  in 
his  effort  at  self-control. 

"  Guy,"  at  last  she  faltered,  "  I  left  all  things  to  follow 
you  ;  won't  you  follow  me  to  the  home  where  we  shall  be 
safe  and  at  rest  ?' 

"  I  will  try,"   he  groaned. 

"  Be  gentle  with  Vera— be  thoughtful  of  her.  If  he  who 
so  kindly  aided  her  in  bringing  the  surgeon  comes  again,  do 
not  drive  him  away. ' ' 

The  man  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  bowed  his 
head  in  assent. 

"  Oh  !  my  husband,"  said  his  wife  in  sudden  and  pas- 
sionate  earnestness,  "  I  love  you  ;  I  would  follow  you  again 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  '  Let  not  your  heart  be  so  troub- 
led.' " 

With  a  cry  like  that  of  one  desperately  wounded,  he  rushed 
from  the  room,  exclaiming,  "  My  punishment  is  greater  than 
I  can  bear." 

Her  eyes  followed  him  with  infinite  regret  and  tenderness, 
and  the  expression  of  her  face  must  have  been  akin  to  that 
of  Christ,  as  he  wept  over  the  doomed  and  unbelieving  city. 
For  a  few  moments  she  was  silent,  and  her  lips  moved  in 
prayer.  Then  she  turned,  and  took  her  child  in  one  last 
close  embrace. 


LEFT    TO  NATURE'S  CARE.  I07 

"Vera,  darling,"  she  whispered,  "it's  only  for  a  little 
while,  and  then  we'll  not  part  any  more.  Assurance  has 
been  given  me  that  He  who  took  into  his  arms  the  children 
that  mothers  brought  Him,  and  blessed  them,  will  take  my 
place  to  you.  My  heart  is  not  troubled,  neither  is  it  afraid. 
I  leave  you  in  His  charge,  and  no  one  shall  be  able  to  pluck 
you  out  of  His  hands." 

*'  Mother,"  said  Vera  suddenly,  "  do  you  think  God 
would  permit  any  one  to  have  two  guardian  angels  ?  Might 
he  not  let  me  have  two,  at  least  till  I  find  some  one  who 
will  take  care  of  me  ?'' 

"  Well,  dear,  if  He  will,  what  then  .?" 

"It  may  be  selfish,  mother  darling,  to  ask  you  to  leave 
heaven  ;  but  God  says  in  His  Book  that  after  we  go  to  Him 
we  shall  be  '  like  unto  the  angels. '  If  He  will  let  you, 
would  you  mind  coming  down  sometimes  to  watch  over  me  } 
I  shall  be  so  very,  very  lonely  without  you,  and  if  I  thought 
you  were  near  me  at  times,  it  would  be  such  a  comfort." 

"  I  believe  he  will  let  me  come,  darling,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  not  all  the  joy  of  heaven  could  keep  me  from  being 
continually  at  your  side.  But  whether  I  can  come  or  not, 
He  has  said,  '  I  will  never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee  ;'  and 
His  words  seem  verj'  sure  to-day." 

The  mother's  voice,  in  her  mortal  weakness,  had  sunk  to 
the  lowest  whisper. 

After  a  few  moments,  she  said,  "Can  you  sing  me  the 
twenty-third  Psalm,  darling.?'' 

Vera  had  long  before  passed  beyond  sobbing  and  tears, 
and  now  possessed  the  strange,  unnatural  calmness  of  those 
who  are  lifted  by  some  great  emergency  of  sorrow  far  above 
their  ordinary  moods  and  powers. 

Rising  from  this  last  close  embrace,  she  chanted  those 
sublime  yet  tender  words,  which  have  been  like  an  all-pow- 
erful and  sustaining  hand  to  myriads  of  weary  pilgrims  in 


lo8  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

the  last  dark  stage  of  the  journey  home.  The  music  was 
simple  and  improvised,  but  so  sweet  and  full  of  pathos,  that 
even  her  father,  who  had  returned,  was  calmed  and  melted 
by  it,  and  sat  down  by  Vera's  side  to  watch  and  wait  for  the 
end.  The  mother's  face  was  very  peaceful,  and  she  seemed 
to  be  sleeping.  Suddenly  her  eyes  opened  wide  and  her 
face  appeared  illumined  by  a  coming  light.  Her  lips  moved, 
and  Vera,  bending  over,  heard  her  whisper, 

'*  Oh,  my  Saviour,  hast  Thou  deigned  to  come  Thyself 
for  me  ?     '  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord.'  " 

Then,  as  if  remembering  those  she  was  leaving,  she  looked 
back  to  them  with  a  smile  that  Vera  never  forgot,  for  it 
seemed  spiritual  rather  than  human,  and  said  quite  plainly, 

"  Good-by  for  a  little  while.  All  is  well.  Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid," 

Her  breast  rose  and  fell  with  two  or  three  long  sighs,  and 
then  the  frail,  earthly  tabernacle  was  tenantless,  but  upon 
the  pallid  face  the  departed  spirit  had  left  the  impress  of 
peace.  To  Vera,  in  her  excited  and  exalted  state,  the  dusky 
cabin  seemed  filled  with  the  rustle  of  angels'  wings. 

"  Is  she  dead  ?"  asked  the  husband  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  No,"  said  Vera  gently,  "  she  is  in  heaven." 

Her  father  went  back  to  his  dark  corner,  and  sat  there 
through  the  long  night,  motionless,  sleepless,  and  scarcely 
seeming  to  breathe.  Vera,  still  holding  her  mother's  cold 
hand,  watched  mechanically,  too  stunned  and  bewildered  to 
think  or  to  realize  her  loss,  and  yet  sleepless  from  excitemen' 
and  the  long  habit  of  wakefulness.  Old  Gula  brought  her 
a  cup  of  milk,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Now,  missy,  mind  your  mud der  jus'  desame.  Wouldn't 
she  say  take  it  ?' '  and  Vera  drank  it  eagerly. 

The  night  deepened,  and  was  full  of  the  strange,  weird 
sounds  to  which  she  had  always  loved  to  listen,  but  she  did 
not  hear  them.     The  silent  stars  passed  over  her  head  as  un- 


LEFT    TO   NATURES   CARE.  109 

noted  as  the  hours.  With  the  same  steadfast  gaze  she  looked 
toward  the  dead  face,  which,  though  hidden  by  the  dark- 
ness, was  ever  distinctly  before  her.  At  last,  as  the  morning 
dawned,  the  face  began  to  take  shape  to  her  outward  vision. 
At  first  it  was  shadowy  and  spirit-like,  then  that  of  a  quiet 
and  peaceful  sleeper  ;  but  at  last  a  broad  ray  of  light,  stream- 
ing through  the  casement,  fell  full  upon  it,  giving  it  a  strange 
gladness,  and  the  effect  of  recovered  youth,  health,  and 
beauty.  God  seemingly  transfigured  the  wasted  features,  sug- 
gesting to  the  desolate  young  watcher  what  had  really  taken 
place  in  the  sunny  land  "  wherein  the  inhabitant  shall  no 
more  say,  I  am  sick."  To  Vera' s  strong  and  simple  faith  it 
was  like  the  vision  of  her  mother's  glory  in  heaven,  and  the 
ray  became,  and  was  ever  remembered,  as  an  angel  of  light 
and  comfort. 

Then  Gula  entered  and  said,  "  Keepa  doin'  jus'  as  you'se 
mudder  would  like,  honey.  Goto  de  spring  and  bathe  your 
face,  and  den  come  and  see  what  I'se  got  for  you." 

Vera  went  at  once,  and  the  cool  water,  coming  from  the 
heart  of  the  mountain,  calmed  her  feverish  excitement.  She 
sat  down  on  a  m.ossy  rock,  and  looked  around  like  one  who 
had  entered  a  new  world  and  a  new  life,  and  could  not  yet 
comprehend  it.  But  gradually  the  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
of  nature  gained  her  attention,  and  began  to  speak  to  her  in 
the  language  she  loved  and  understood  so  well. 

"  Look  at  us,"  said  the  violets,  blooming  at  her  feet. 
"  All  last  winter  we  slept  in  seeming  death,  as  your  mother 
is  sleeping  now  ;  but  at  the  right  time  God  awakened  us, 
and  here  we  are  to  comfort  you." 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  the  bubbling  spring.  "  The  black 
ice  shut  me  in,  as  the  black  earth  will  cover  your  mother, 
b'ut  it  did  not  hurt  me  ;  and,  sparkling  again  this  morning 
as  brightly  as  ever,  I  am  here  to  comfort  you." 

"  Listen  to  us,"  said  the  birds  over  her  head.     '*  We  did 


no  NEAR    TO    NATURE'S  HEART. 

not  sing  here  last  winter,  but  we  were  singing  where  the  cold 
winds  never  blow.  So  your  mother  has  only  flown  a'-^y  to 
a  sunnier  clime,  and  we  are  here  to  comfort  you." 

"  Look  at  me,"  cried  the  sun,  rising  in  unclouded 
spleaador  over  the  eastern  hills.  "  Do  I  not  come  back  to 
you  after  the  darkness  of  the  night  ?  So  will  He,  whose  light 
I  reflect,  shine  away  your  sorrow,  and  He  has  sent  me  to 
comfort  you. ' ' 

"  Watch  m.e  a  little  while,"  said  a  drop  of  dew,  hanging 
on  a  delicate  wind-flower  that  she  had  unconsciously  pluck- 
ed ;  "  and,  ere  you  are  aware,  the  sun  will  draw  me  up 
toward  himself  into  the  sky.  So  God  has  taken  your 
mother,  and  soon  he  will  take  you,  and  he  himself  will  wipe 
away  all  tears  and  comfort  you." 

Then,  to  the  fancy  of  the  solitary  girl,  who  had  little  com- 
panionship save  that  of  nature's  children,  these  voices  all 
seemed  to  join  in  a  swelling  chorus  : 

"  Oh  !  trust  with  us  the  great  Creator, 

Whose  law  of  love  our  love  enthralls  ; 
Unnoted  by  our  Heavenly  Father 
Not  e'en  a  fluttering  sparrow  falls." 

"  Let  not  j'our  heart  be  faint  and  troubled. 
And  neither  let  it  be  afraid  ; 
For  God  will  guard,  with  care  redoubled, 
The  child  in  his  own  image  made." 

Thus  the  peace  and  hopefulness  of  nature  were  breathed 
into  her  heart,  and  she  went  back  to  the  cottage,  trusting  in 
Him  to  whom  all  things  seemed  to  point. 

But,  when  she  entered  the  cabin,  and  the  sleeper  did  not 
awake  with  the  wonted  smile  of  recognition  and  words  of 
welcome  ;  when  she  kissed  the  cold  lips,  and  found  that 
they  were  indeed  cold  and  unresponsive,  a  mysterious  dread 
chilled  her  own  heart,  and  the  realization  of  her  loss,  lone- 


LEFT  TO  NATURE'S  CARE.  II f 

Kness,  and  helplessness  was  so  vivid  as  to  be  well-nigh  over- 
whelming". 

But  tears,  nature's  relief,  came  at  last,  and  she  wept  and 
sobbed  until  she  grew  quiet  from  exhaustion.  Then  Gula 
again  resumed  her  homely  ministry,  and  after  inducing  the 
Stricken  orphan  to  take  a  little  food,  was  at  last  pleased  to 
see  her  escape  from  sorrow  for  a  time  in  the  deep  oblivion 
of  sleep. 

The  husband,  who  for  many  hours  had  seemed  stunned 
and  paralyzed  by  his  loss,  at  last  aroused  himself,  and  told 
Gula  that  he  would  go  with  the  skiff  up  the  river  for  a  coffin, 
and  that  it  would  be  late  before  he  returned.  Having  taken 
some  provisions,  and  leaving  the  two  dogs  as  protection,  he 
departed. 

Vera  slept  quietly  until  the  time  her  mother  had  died  the 
previous  evening,  when  something,  perhaps,  in  the  recurring 
hour  caused  her  to  start  up  as  if  called.  But  time  had 
been  given  for  her  healthful  nature  to  recuperate,  and 
though  the  sense  of  desolation,  all  the  more  oppressive  from 
her  father's  absence,  was  indeed  terrible  at  tim.es,  she  was 
able  to  resume  her  post  of  watcher  for  the  night,  saying  to 
Gula, 

"  1  will  feel  better  sitting  here  by  mother,  as  if  she  wero 
Still  alive,  than  I  would  ?.ny where  else." 

"  I'se  a  gwine  to  stay  here  wid  de  young  missy,"  said 
Gula  resolutely  ;  and  she  crouched  down  in  the  wide  fire- 
place, the  faint  flicker  of  the  flames  often  giving  a  strange 
effect  to  her  face  and  form  as  she  crooned  weird  snatches  oi 
the  barbarous  music  learned  long  ago  in  her  tropical  hom& 

It  was  a  remarkable  group  :  the  mother,  once  beautiful 
and  abounding  in  hope,  now  faded  and  dead  in  the  moun- 
tain cabin  ;  the  exile,  the  old  African  princess,  who  had 
been  stolen  from  her  home,  and  wronged,  until  her  mind 
had  become  even  a  greater  wreck  than  her  scarred  and  shriv- 
Roe— VIII— F 


112  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

eled  form  ;  and  the  young  maiden,  who  was  like  some  of 
her  favorite  mountain  flowers,  that  grew  into  fragrant  love- 
liness among  rocks  and  cliffs,  where  it  would  seem  they 
could  scarcely  live  at  all. 

The  night  deepened,  and  it  may  be  well  believed  that 
other  and  viewless  watchers  gathered  round  the  sorrow* 
Stricken  girL 


TBE  ROBIN  HOOD   OF   THE   HIGHLANDS.     II3 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE  ROBIN  HOOD  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

AS  the  lovely  spring  day,  which  had  brought  to  Vera  a 
brief  respite  from  her  sorrow,  was  drawing  to  a  close, 
a  man  might  have  been  seen  issuing  from  a  log  cabin  located 
among  the  mountains  west  of  the  Hudson,  and  at  a  consid- 
erable distance  from  the  river.  His  manner  was  brisk  and 
decided,  as  if  he  were  looking  forward  to  the  labors  from 
which,  in  view  of  the  hour,  he  should  naturally  be  return- 
ing. His  house  was  built  very  strongly,  and  appeared  as  if 
it  might  be  used  as  a  refuge  and  defense,  as  well  as  a  dwell- 
ing. The  place  had  a  certain  rude  air  of  thrift,  and  yet  there 
was  nothing  to  indicate  from  whence  the  owner's  revenue 
came.  There  was  no  cleared  and  arable  land  near,  and 
certainly  the  beautiful  horse,  that  cropped  the  grass  in  the 
small  inclosure  around  the  cabin,  had  never  served  as  one  of 
a  woodman's  team. 

The  man's  action  was  still  more  irreconcilable  with  any 
peaceful  pursuit ;  for  he  rapidly  ascended  the  lofty  hill  back 
of  his  house,  which  was  one  of  a  succession  of  wooded  high- 
lands, stretching  away  toward  the  river,  and  having  gained 
the  summit,  scanned  the  valley  to  the  westward,  giving  espe- 
cial attention  to  some  object  far  distant  upon  the  road  lead- 
ing southward. 

As  he  stood  there,  partially  concealing  himself  among  the 
low  trees,  glass  in  hand,  we  may  sketch  him  briefly.  He 
was  a  little  past  middle  age,  tall,  and  most  powerfully  built ; 


314  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

his  quick  movements,  however,  adding  an  impression  of 
lightness  and  something  like  grace  to  that  of  strength.  The 
aspect  of  his  face  was  bold,  even  to  recklessness.  He  had 
the  bearing  of  one  gifted  with  unlimited  natural  daring, 
rather  than  the  calm,  patient  courage  which  would  lead  a 
man  to  die  at  his  post.  His  restless  black  eyes  had  the 
habit  of  glancing  rapidly  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he  were  on 
a  perpetual  reconnoissance.  The  light  that  came  from  them 
was  not  the  diabolical  gleam  of  those  who  know  themselves 
to  be  villains,  but  rather  the  keen,  alert  expression  often 
seen  in  beasts  of  prey.  There  was  scarcely  anything  to  in- 
dicate the  presence  of  a  moral  nature.  The  eagle,  perched 
upon  his  eyrie,  scanning  the  valley  to  see  where  he  could 
swoop  down  to  the  best  advantage,  would  be  the  most  cor- 
rect type  of  this  man,  Claudius  Smith  by  name,  and  the  ter- 
ror of  the  whole  region,  during  the  early  years  of  the  Revo- 
lution. 

Apparently  satisfied  by  his  scrutiny,  he  went  rapidly  back 
among  the  hills,  instead  of  returning  to  his  own  house. 
Within  less  than  half  an  hour  he  reached  a  secluded  glen. 
Before  descending  this,  he  again  took  an  observation — not 
of  the  exquisite  landscape,  with  valleys  lying  in  shadow,  and 
rugged  highlands  aglow  with  the  setting  sun,  and  all  decked 
in  the  tender  and  tinted  foliage  of  May.  The  gleam  of  a 
rifle  barrel  would  catch  Smith's  eye  instantly,  but  the  per- 
ception of  beauty  was  not  in  his  line. 

Again  everything  appeared  satisfactory,  and  he  descended 
the  hill-side  nearly  to  its  base,  and  then,  instead  of  giving 
the  conventional  signal  of  thrice  whistling,  he  imitated  with 
mar\-elous  exactness  the  neigh  of  a  horse.  A  fiat  stone, 
quite  hidden  by  some  copse-wood  near  where  he  stood,  was 
thrown  back,  and  eight  men  emerged,  as  it  v/ere,  from  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  and  the  leader  and  his  band  were  to- 
gether. 


THE  ROBIN  HOOD  OF   THE  HIGHLANDS,     1 15 

**  It's  all  right,  boys,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "  I  watched 
the  squad  of  militia  till  they  disappeared  to  the  southeast. 
The  coast  is  clear.  Meet  me,  mounted  and  armed,  at  my 
house  within  an  hour  ;"  and  with  the  lightness  and  celerity 
of  movement  that  characterized  him,  he  vanished  among  the 
trees. 

His  men  well  understood  their  part,  and  were  seemingly 
glad  to  be  released  from  confinement  The  presence  oi 
soldiery  in  the  neighborhood  made  the  resort  to  this  hiding- 
place  (of  which  they  had  several  in  the  mountains)  a  precau- 
tion which  their  leader  insisted  on,  for  this  Tory  gang  had 
already  become  so  notorious  that  parties  had  attempted  their 
capture.  After  carefully  covering  the  mouth  of  the  cave, 
they  went  to  their  secluded  mountain  homes,  or  where  their 
horses  were  in  hiding,  and  within  the  time  named,  were 
reassembled  at  Smith's  house,  armed  and  mounted  in  true 
moss-trooper  style. 

Never  was  a  group  of  Italian  bandits  among  the  Apennines 
more  picturesque  and  suggestive  of  ruthless  deeds  than  these 
highland  Tories  and  Cowboys  ;  and  not  a  classic  brigand  01 
them  all  was  more  unscrupulous. 

They  were  all  dressed  somewhat  as  their  leader,  in  red 
flannel  shirts  and  short  coats,  which  could  be  buttoned 
tightly  or  hang  loose  like  a  cavalryman's  jacket.  Buckskin 
breeches,  and  topboots  armed  with  spurs,  completed  their 
simple  attire  ;  but  their  leathern  belts  bristled  with  weapons, 
while  across  each  one's  back  was  slung  a  short  musket. 
Though  little  more  than  midnight  plunderers,  they  were  ever 
prepared  for  desperate  fighting,  should  the  emergency  require 
it.  As  they  hastily  devoured  the  rude  meal  which  the  wife 
of  iheir  leader  had  prepared,  they  certainly  were  a  savage- 
looking  crew,  with  their  unshaven  faces,  and  eyes  gleaming 
cut  from  under  slouched  hats,  which  they  had  not  the  grace 
to  remove. 


lid  NEAR    TO  lSrATURE'&  HEART. 

But  of  their  horses,  the  beautiful  and  innocent  accomplices 
of  their  crimes,  too  much  could  scarcely  be  said  in  the  way 
of  praise.  And  little  wonder,  for  the  freebooters  had  taken 
the  pick  of  the  whole  country  side.  The  splendid  and  spir- 
ited beasts  made  the  quiet  evening  resonant  with  their  neigh- 
ing, as  they  impatiently  pawed  the  earth  while  waiting  for 
their  ignoble  masters. 

At  last,  in  the  dusky  twilight,  the  men  formed  a  circle 
about  the  door,  and  Claudius  Smith  held  aloft  a  flask  of 
whisky,  as  he  cried, 

"  Here's  to  a  big  night's  work  ;"  and  he  took  a  heavy 
draught. 

"  Tip  it  well,  boys,"  he  added  ;  "for  you've  plenty  of 
rough,  hard  riding  before  you,  and  mayhap  some  fight- 
ing." 

A  shout  greeted  this  announcement,  and  the  flask  was 
drained,  and  filled  again  for  the  emergencies  of  the  night. 

Slinging  their  muskets  over  their  shoulders,  they  sprang 
lightly  into  their  saddles,  and  were  soon  following  Smith 
along  a  rough  road  which  skirted  a  mountain  side.  Where 
the  road  was  rough  and  precipitous,  they  walked  their  horses  ; 
but  at  times  they  would  break  into  a  sudden  gallop  over 
level  reaches,  showing  that  they  knew  every  inch  of  the  way. 
At  last  they  descended  to  the  valley,  and  struck  out  rapidly 
across  the  open  country,  till  they  approached  a  secluded 
farm-house,  where,  drawing  rein,  they  entered  the  gateway, 
and  surrounded  the  dwelling. 

*'  This  is  the  right  kind  of  a  Whig,  boys,  for  he's  got  a 
pile  of  hard  money  stowed  away  somewheres  ;  so  don't  let 
him  escape.      Bring  him  out.  Cole." 

The  man  thus  addressed  dismounted,  and  taking  from 
the  adjacent  woodpile  a  log  of  wood,  crashed  in  the  door, 
thus  rudely  arousing  their  victim  from  his  slumbers. 

"  If  you  want  to  save  your  life,  come  out  and  speak  to 


THE  ROBIN  HOOD  OF   THE  HIGHLANDS.     117 

me,"  shouted  Smith  ;  "  but  if  you  pull  a  trigger  you  are  a 
dead  man.     You  know  Claud  Smith." 

The  wretched  farmer  knew  him  only  too  well,  and  called, 
*'  I'll  come  as  soon  as  I  get  my  clothes  on." 

"  No  matter  about  your  clothes.  We  ain't  over  modest, 
and  it's  not  women  you've  got  to  deal  with,  I  can  tell  yer." 

The  man,  partially  dressed,  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
with  face  so  pale  that  it  looked  white  even  in  the  starlight. 

"  Now,"  continued  Smith,  "I've  got  two  things  agin 
you.  Fust,  you're  a  Whig;  and  second,  you're  hoardin' 
up  money  that  others  need  more'  n  you  do.  If  you  want  me 
to  let  yer  off  on  the  first  offense,  you  must  bring  out  every 
sUner  you've  got" 

"Now,  Smith,"  began  the  man  tremblingly,  "  you  are 
entirely  mistaken.      I  haven' t  got  any " 

*' Stop  your  jaw,"  said  the  robber  coarsely.  "A  man 
Ihat's  so  near  eternity  as  you  be  ought  to  look  out  how  he 
Ijes." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  haven't — ~" 

"  String  him  up,  boys  ;  we'll  help  his  memory." 

They  were  provided  with  a  rope  for  such  style  of  persua- 
sion, and  throwing  it  over  the  well-sweep,  they  fastened  it 
around  the  neck  of  their  victim,  and  lifted  him  off  his  feet 
for  a  moment. 

**  Can  you  remember  where  it  is  now .?"  asked  Smith  un- 
feelingly. 

But  they  had  misjudged  their  man,  for  he  had  that  kind 
of  passive  courage  and  obstinacy  which  rises  up  against  out- 
rage, and  is  strong  to  endure.  Moreover,  his  gold  was  his 
heart's  treasure,  and  he  doggedly  resolved  to  part  with  life 
first ;  so  he  said, 

**  I  know  you.  Smith  ;  you've  no  more  feeling  than  a 
Stone.  I  expect  you'll  take  my  life  any  way,  but  you 
shan't  have  my  money." 


Sl8  NEAR    TG  NATURE'S  HEART, 

**0h  !  you  want  some  more  persuasion,  do  you?  Up 
with  him  again,  boys." 

They  kept  him  struggling  and  strangling  as  long  as  they 
dared  and  still  preser/e  the  breath  of  life,  and  then  let  his 
feet  rest  on  the  ground. 

"  Now  you  see  how  mistaken  you  are,  and  how  tender 
hearted  I  am.      Here  I've  given  you  another  chance  for  life  ; 
but  be  quick,  for  this  is  only  the  beginning  of  our  night's 
work." 

"  No,"  gasped  the  man  doggedly. 

"  No  ?  curse  you  !  I'll  soon  change  that  tune.  Up  with 
him  again." 

With  oaths  and  ribald  revilings,  the  bandits,  whose  dusky 
figures  seemed  those  of  demons,  obeyed  the  diabolical  order. 
When  they  again  let  him  down,  the  farmer  was  unable  to 
stand  ;  but,  in  response  to  their  kicks  and  questions,  he 
maintained  an  obstinate  silence. 

"Shall  we  string  him  up  and  leave  him?"  asked 
Cole. 

Smith  hesitated,  and  for  a  moment  the  man's  life  depend- 
ed on  the  caprice  of  the  bandit's  lawless  will. 

Then  he  said,  carelessly, 

"  No,  let  him  alone.  I  rather  like  his  grit,  and  I've 
nothing  agin  him.  If  I  had,  old  feller,  I  wouldn't  even 
give  you  time  to  say  your  prayers.  Let  us  look  for  our- 
selves, boys.  Mayhap  we'  11  find  enough  to  pay  us  for  com- 
ing out  of  our  way." 

The  victim  crawled  to  his  door-step,  on  which  he  sat  in 
sullen  silence  while  they  ransacked  his  house  in  no  gentle 
style,  breaking  their  way  where  locks  resisted.  But  the 
farmer  had  concealed  his  coin  too  v/ell  for  discovery.  la 
order  to  spite  him,  however,  they  carried  off  many  valuable 
papers,  and  all  light  articles  of  value  on  which  they  could 
'ay  their  hands,  and  with  the  parting  salutation  of  a  kick  to 


THE  ROBIN  HOOD   OF   THE  HIGHLANDS.     I19 

their  half-murdered  host,  they  vanished  in  the  darkness  as 
rapidly  as  they  had  come. 

The  inmates  of  farm-houses  and  cabins  trembled  as  they 
clattered  by,  but  they  were  safe  for  that  night,  as  the  next 
point  at  which  Smith  meant  to  strike  was  far  distant.  It 
was  a  part  of  his  policy  to  mislead  and  bewilder  the  authori- 
ties by  depredations  so  far  apart  as  to  make  it  seem  impossi- 
ble that  he  and  his  gang  were  the  authors  in  each  case. 

Their  long,  swinging  gallop  soon  brought  them  to  the 
mountains  again,  and  for  an  hour  they  slowly  ascended  the 
precipitous  sides ;  then,  like  the  wind,  they  crossed  a  level 
plateau,  and  afterward  continued  through  wild  and  unfre- 
quented roads  known  to  few  save  themselves,  finding  breath- 
ing places  for  their  horses  when  the  ascent  or  descent  was 
steep.  In  about  three  hours  they  commenced  defiling  down 
what  was  little  more  than  a  path,  from  various  points  of 
which  the  gleam  of  the  Hudson  River  could  be  seen  in  the 
starlight.  The  way  was  rough  and  rocky,  but  their  horses 
had  been  trained  for  their  work  by  many  similar  expeditions. 
At  last  they  drew  near  the  recently  commenced  military 
works  at  Fort  Montgomer}',  and  their  approach  became 
quiet  and  stealthy. 

"  We  must  capture  one  of  the  garrison,"  said  Smith  ;  "for 
if  we  can  send  a  full  account  of  what  the  Whigs  are  doing 
here,  our  Tory  friends  in  the  city  will  pay  us  well  for  it." 

Leaving  their  horses  in  a  clump  of  dark,  overshadowing 
trees,  with  several  of  the  party  in  charge,  Smith  and  three 
others  cautiously  reconnoitered  on  foot  until  they  reached 
the  unfinished  line  of  the  works.  Stealing  along  this  a  little 
distance,  their  steps  were  soon  arrested  by  a  slight  sound. 
Listening  intently  for  a  few  moments,  Smith  turned  and 
whispered  succinctly, 

"  It's  some  cuss  asleep.      Leave  him  to  me." 

Advancing  cautiously  a  few  steps  further,  he  saw  the  faint 


120  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

outline  of  a  sentinel  leaning  against  a  small  tree,  with  his 
hands  crossed  on  the  muzzle  of  a  musket,  above  which  a 
bayonet  gleamed.  The  Tory,  quick  at  expedients,  instantly 
formed  a  plan  for  his  capture.  Summoning  his  three  com- 
rades, he  directed  them  how  to  support  his  undertaking. 
He  then  took  from  one  of  them  his  leather  belt,  and  stole 
noiselessly  up  behind  the  tree  against  which  his  victim  was 
leaning,  and  whose  nasal  organ  made  the  night  anything  but 
musical.  Then,  like  a  flash,  he  threw  the  belt  around  both 
tree  and  man,  and  secured  his  prisoner  by  drawing  the 
buckle  tight. 

"  Och,  Molly,  me  darlint,  hold  on  a  bit  Bloody  blazes  ! 
what's—" 

Smith's  hand  stopped  further  utterance,  and  then  a  hand^ 
kerchief  was  tied  securely  over  his  mouth.  The  other 
bandits  came  up,  and  before  the  unwary  sentinel  (who  was 
sio  other  than  the  unfortunate  Larry,  and  whose  feculty  of 
getting  into  trouble  never  deserted  him)  was  fairly  awake, 
he  was  bound  and  spirited  away,  giving  the  garrison  he  was 
set  to  guard  no  other  warning  than  the  remonstrance  which 
Molly's  sharp  tongue  and  heavy  hand  had  made  habitual. 

When  they  reached  the  secluded  spot  where  the  others, 
were  in  waiting,  Smith  put  a  pistol  to  Larry's  head,  and  said, 

"  Now  speak  low,  and  speak  to  the  point,  if  you  ever  want 
to  speak  again.  Answer  my  questions  ;  I  can  tell  whether 
you  are  lying  or  not.  At  your  first  lie  my  men  will  cut 
your  juggler."  And  removing  the  handkerchief,  he  asked 
rapidly  about  the  number  of  the  garrison  and  the  nature  of 
the  work. 

Larry's  discretion  preserved  him  to  die  for  his  country 
upon  a  more  auspicious  occasion,  and  he  answered  as  well 
as  his  chattering  teeth  would  permit.  Smith  was  soon  con- 
vinced that  he  had  drawn  from  him  all  he  knew,  and  then 
said  coolly, 


THE  ROBIN  HOOD   OF    THE  HIGHLANDS.     1 21 

' '  Now  you  are  goinp^  to  desert,  you  know.  If  I  should 
kill  you  and  leave  you  here,  it  might  make  me  trouble. 
You  will  have  to  disappear,  and  make  your  cursed  Whig 
commander  believe  that  you  have  gone  off  to  parts  unknown. 
We  shall  have  to  take  you  with  us  till  we  find  a  good  place 
for  you  to  desert  in." 

These  words  had  such  a  mysterious  import  that  Larry  re- 
solved to  make  a  desperate  effort  to  escape.  But  his  hands 
were  tied  behind  his  back,  and  the  rope  they  had  used  on 
the  farmer  was  about  his  neck,  with  which  they  hustled  him 
along  as  they  resumed  their  march  northward,  tending  toward 
the  river  bank. 

' '  Sure  an'  ye'  re  not  goin'  to  murther  me  ?' '  gasped  Larr)\ 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  that's  about  it,  in  plain  English,"  said 
Smith. 

"  Surely  ye' 11  not  shed  innocent  blood  .?" 

"  Your  blood  isn't  innocent.     In  the  first  place,  you're 

a Whig  ;  in  the  second  place,  you  were  sleeping  on 

your  post,  and  your  own  officers  would  shoot  you  for  that 
to-morrow  ;  at  least  they  ought  to,  and  we'll  save  them  the 
trouble." 

"What  are  yees  goin'  to  do  wid  me.?"  asked  Larry 
hoarsely. 

"  Oh,  put  you  quietly  out  of  the  way,  where  you  will  do 
no  harm,"  said  Smith,  who  rather  enjoyed  Larry's  terror. 
"  They  say  dead  men  tell  no  tales  ;  but  it's  an  infernal  lie. 
There  are  times  when  I  don't  want  either  dead  or  live  men 
on  my  trail." 

Larry  was  now  satisfied  that  if  he  ever  saw  Molly  again  he 
must  act  promptly,  and  with  almost  superhuman  strength  he 
tugged  at  the  cord  that  bound  his  hands.  With  a  thrill  of 
hope  he  was  at  last  able  to  draw  one  hand  out  of  its  confine- 
ment, and  thus  relieved  thera  both,  but  had  the  presence 
of  mind  to  keep  them  together  as  before,  so  that  their  free* 


122  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART. 

dom  was  unnoted,  and  continued  on  a  little  further  with  the 
gang,  till  they  came  to  where  a  steep  bank  shelved  down 
into  the  darkness  on  one  side  of  the  road.  Then,  with  the 
celerity  which  his  desperate  emergency  prompted,  he  drew 
his  knife,  cut  the  rope  around  his  neck,  and  bounded  over 
the  bank,  rolling,  tumbling,  springing,  he  knew  not  whither, 
in  the  mad  desire  to  get  away. 

For  a  moment  his  captors  were  so  astonished  that  they  did 
not  move  ;  then  Smith  cried, 

*'  Don't  shoot  After  him  ;  cut  his  throat,  and  hide  hig 
body." 

Two  of  the  most  active  sprang  from  their  horses,  and  com- 
menced descending  the  rocky,  precipitous  bank.  But  Larry 
had  the  start,  and  his  pursuers  were  not  willing  to  go  at  his 
breakneck  pace.  For  a  wonder,  he  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  ravine  sound  in  limb,  and  darted  off  in  the  darkness 
among  the  concealing  copse-wood,  soon  becoming  utterly 
lost  to  view.  The  baffied  brigands  gave  up  the  chase,  and 
returned,  grumbling  and  swearing,  to  their  horses.  Nor 
were  their  rufBed  tempers  soothed  by  the  volley  of  curses 
received  from  their  leader. 

'*  I  could  have  shot  him  if  you  hadn't  stopped  me,"  said 
Cole. 

"  Yes,  and  brought  the  garrison  clattering  after  us.  I 
had  other  work  on  hand  before  I  crossed  the  mountains,  and 
I  won't  be  balked  either;  so  come,"  And  away  like  a 
thundergust  they  sped  to  work  destruction  elsewhere. 

In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  Larry  regained  his 
post,  and  found,  to  his  joy,  that  the  time  for  the  relief  of 
guard  had  not  come.  Dodging  around  in  shadow,  he 
reached  his  quarters,  and  awakened  Molly  as  roughly  as  he 
had  imagined  she  was  rousing  him  when  the  Tory  pinionsd 
him  to  the  tree. 

**  Bloody  murther  1"  spluttered  Molly. 


THE  ROBIN  HGGD    OF    THE   HIGHLANDS.     123 

"  Hist,  or  I'll  throttle  ye.  It's  me— Larry,  If  ye  don't 
want  to  see  me  shot  in  the  mornin',  git  me  a  musket  in  a 
wink." 

"  Faix,  an'  I'll  shoot  je  meself,  if  ye  don't  be  quiet 
Ye've  been  drinkin'." 

'•  Now,  Molly,  me  darlint,  I'll  tell  ye  all  in  the  mornin'  ; 
but  if  ye  don't  stale  out  an'  git  me  a  musket,  I'm  the  same 
as  a  dead  man.  They  won' t  mind  yees  if  ye  is  seen,  but  if 
they  cotch  me,  it' s  all  up.  Don' t  ye  see  ?  I'  m  off  me  post 
I've  been  robbed  and  murthered,  an'  to-morry  I'll  be  shot. 
Yees  can  stale  to  the  armory  an'  git  me  one  in  a  jiffy.  Go 
quick,  or  I'll  haunt  ye  all  yer  days." 

This  dire  threat  roused  Molly  to  action,  and  she  now  be= 
gan  to  realize,  from  Larry's  desperate  earnestness,  that  the 
emergency  was  pressing.  Her  husband  threw  a  gray  blanket 
around  her,  and  with  bare  feet  and  noiseless  tread,  she  slip- 
ped to  a  forge  near  by,  where  arms  were  repaired,  and  soon 
returned,  saynig, 

"  There,  now,  look  to  yerself,  for  I  don't  want  to  be  both- 
ered wid  ye  after  ye' re  dead."  A  moment  later  Larry  was 
back  to  his  post,  where  he  stood,  straight  as  a  ramrod,  often 
rubbing  his  eyes,  to  make  sure  it  was  not  all  a  dream.  But 
his  torn  clothes,  aching  wrists,  and  bruised  limbs  proved 
the  reality  of  his  strange  experience,  and  he  was  only  too 
glad  that  the  loose  discipline  of  the  incipient  fort  had  enabled 
him  to  gain  his  beat  without  detection.  When,  a  little  later, 
the  officer  of  the  guard  came  around  with  his  squad,  Larry 
challenged  him  with  great  promptness,  and  went  rejoicing 
to  his  quarters  with  an  encomium  on  his  vigilance.  But 
his  tale  was  so  strange  that  Molly  would  not  believe  it,  and 
her  only  comment  was, 

"  I  thought  ye'd  be  mare-ridden  afther  the  supper  ye  ate. 
Ye'  d  better  find  that  firelock  in  the  mornin' . ' ' 

But  when,  in  the  morning,  she  saw  his  wrists  and  bruise^ 


2  24  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

and  the  gaps  in  his  clothes  which  she  must  mend,  she  con- 
soled him  by  saying, 

"  Och,  ye  spalpeen  !  it  was  the  divil  himself  as  had  ye  ; 
better  mend  yer  ways." 

Larry  shook  his  head,  but  resolved  that  he  would  put 
chestnut  burrs  in  his  shoes  before  he  slept  on  his  post  again. 

Smith  and  his  followers  soon  reached  the  vicinity  of  the 
lonely  log  cabin  back  of  West  Point,  where  Vera  was  keep- 
ing her  patient  watch.  As  they  struck  up  the  glen  leading 
to  the  dwelling,  Cole  sidled  up  to  his  leader,  and  said, 

"  Claud,  you're  not  goin'  to  Brown's  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am.     Why  not.?" 

"Well,"  continued  the  superstitious  robber,  "  they  say 
everything  is  not  right  there,  and  that  the  old  black  witch  as 
lives  with  them  can  do  with  a  feller  just  what  she  pleases. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  flesh  and  blood,  but  our  weapons  ain't  o' 
much  account  agin  the  devil." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  man  or  devil,"  said  Smith  surlily. 
"  They  say  there's  a  lot  of  hard  money  hid  in  that  cabin, 
and  I'm  not  goin'  home  empty-handed,  after  such  a  ride  as 
we've  had  to-night," 

Cole's  words,  however,  oppressed  the  mind  of  the  leader, 
fcr  superstition  is  rarely  divorced  from  ignorance  and  crime. 
He  also  saw  that  Cole's  fear  was  shared  by  the  rest  of  the 
gang  ;  so  he  caused  them  to  halt,  and  passed  around  the 
flask  of  whisky  again.  Under  this  stimulus  they  advanced, 
and  were  glad  to  hear  sounds  that  were  earthly,  as  the  great 
dogs  bounded  fiercely  toward  them.  Two  shots  in  quick 
succession  dispatched  them,  and  after  their  dying  whine 
ceased,  all  was  still — it  seemed  to  them  strangely  and  un- 
naturally still.  They  supposed  the  owner  of  the  cabin  would 
appear,  but  there  was  not  a  sound. 

Smith  took  another  pull  at  the  flask,  and  then  approached 
the  door,  but  the  same  oppressive  silence  continued  ;  a  dread 


THE  JiOB/IV   noon   OF    THE  HIGHLANDS.     125 

and  restraint  that  he  could  not  understand  chilled  his  heart, 
and  the  fire  that  flickered  on  the  hearth  filled  the  cabin,  as 
seen  through  the  windows,  with  fitful  and  fantastic  shadows. 

"  Come  away,  Claud,"  muttered  his  companions  ;  "this 
is  no  place  for  us." 

But  the  hardihood  of  the  man  prevailed.  Taking  another 
fiery  draught,  he  cocked  his  pistol,  and  went  straight  to  the 
door  and  knocked. 

There  was  no  response. 

He  lifted  the  latch,  and  it  yielded  to  him.  Stepping 
within,  he  stood  transfixed.  Gleaming  out  upon  him  from 
where  she  crouched  by  the  fireplace  was  the  weird,  unearthly 
visage  of  old  Gula,  whose  fixed  gaze  of  terror  was  to  him  a 
Gorgon  stare.  More  awful  to  the  guilty  soul  was  the  white, 
dead  face  turned  toward  him  from  the  bed.  Vera  knelt  by 
her  mother  with  clasped  hands  and  eyes  turned  heavenward, 
and  her  beauty,  pallor,  and  attitude  gave  her  a  spiritual 
rather  than  an  earthly  aspect.  But  not  a  sound  broke  the 
silence  that  had  now  become  awful  to  the  man  of  blood, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  not  break  the  spell  him- 
self. A  jet  of  flame  leaped  up  suddenly  from  the  hearth, 
and  the  strange  inmates  of  the  cabin  seemed  to  dilate  as  if 
in  supernatural  light.  A  panic  seized  upon  the  robber.  He 
turned  upon  his  heel,  and,  without  a  word,  sprang  upon  his 
horse  and  galloped  away  with  his  trembling  companions  ; 
not  did  they  draw  rein  till  far  up  among  the  mountains. 
Speaking  of  it  afterward,  Smith  said  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  a 
great  hand  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and  thrust  him 
out. 

At  the  first  fierce  clamor  of  the  dogs.  Vera  felt  a  sudden 
shock  of  terror,  which  the  firing  increased  ;  but  her  training 
and  her  own  instincts  led  her  to  lift  her  heart  at  once  to  God. 
Then  came  the  impulse  to  trust  Him  only,  and  stepping  to 
the  door,  she  unbarred  it,  and  then  knelt  by  her  mother's 


126  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

side,  in  which  attitude  she  remained  until  the  clatter  of  the 
flying  bandits  died  away.     When  she  arose,  she  said, 

"  '  Fear  not,'  Gula,  '  for  they  that  be  with  us  are  more 
than  they  that  be  with  them. '  If  God  should  open  our  eyes 
as  he  did  the  eyes  of  the  young  servant  of  Elisha,  we,  too, 
would  see  that  '  the  mountain  is  full  of  horses  and  chariots 
of  fire  round  about'   us." 

"  Your  God  seems  mighty  po'ful,"  said  the  negress,  with 
awe  in  tone  and  manner,  "  but  Gula's  too  ole  to  be  changin' 
Gods  at  her  time  o'  life.  De  captain  ob  de  floatin'  misery 
dat  brought  me  from  my  home,  and  de  mas'r  dat  used  to 
whip  my  ole  dead  body,  sot  great  store  by  your  God,  and 
was  alius  axin'  him  to  dam  folks,  whatever  dat  was  ;  and 
I'se  afeard  if  I  should  pray  to  him  he'd  take  me  to  whare 
old  mas'r  is,  and  I  doesn't  want  to  see  him  no  mo'.  I 
wants  to  go  back  to  my  ole  home. ' ' 

Vera  sighed  deeply,  for  Gula's  harsh  experience,  which 
she  could  not  fail  to  associate  with  the  Divine  name  that  she 
heard  so  often,  raised  perplexing  questions.  But  after  a  lit- 
tle the  young  girl  said  thoughtfully, 

*'  I  do  not  think  your  old  master  will  be  where  mother  is. 
God  does  not  mix  winter  and  summer  together.  No  more 
will  he  join  the  cruel  and  brutal  with  the  loving  and  gentle. 
Suppose  my  God  should  take  you  to  where  mother  is  ?" 

Old  Gula  shook  her  head,  saying,  "I'd  like  po'ful  well 
to  see  old  missus,  an'  p'raps  dey'd  let  me  visit  her.  But  I 
doesn't  want  to  take  no  risks  ob  meetin'  ole  mas'r  agin,  and 
I  does  want  to  see  my  ole  home.  Oh  !  dat  I  might  go  dis 
minute." 

With  such  quaint,  unearthly  talk  the  Christian  maiden, 
who  was  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  and  the  pagan  slave  be- 
guiled the  heavy  hours.  In  their  beliefs,  as  in  their  appear- 
ance, there  was  seemingly  wide  diversity  ;  but  in  the  only 
kinship  that  is  abiding — that  of  love — and  in  God's  eyes  tliey 


THE  ROBIN-  HOOD   OF   THE  HIGHLANDS,    12? 

were  not  so  far  apart  as  many  who  bow  together  at  his  altar. 
The  fathomless  chasm  of  evil  did  not  divide  them,  and  per- 
haps at  last  old  Gula  would  find  her  tropical  hom.e  so  blended 
with  Vera's  paradise  as  to  be  content. 

Note  to  Preceding  Chapter. — Claudius  Smith  is  not  a  ficti- 
tious character,  but  was  once  the  terror  of  the  region  adjacent  to 
the  Highlands  of  the  Hudson.  The  robbery  of  the  farmer  actually 
took  place  as  described,  and  is  only  antedated  little  more  than  a 
year.  When  Smith  was  hung  at  Goshen,  N.  Y.,  January  22d,  I779» 
this  farmer  asked  Smith  where  valuable  papers  he  had  stolen  were. 

"  Meet  me  in  the  next  world  and  I  will  tell  you,"  was  the  grim 
reply. 

His  tall  and  splendid  form,  arrayed  in  rich  broadcloth  with  silver 
buttons,  combined  with  his  fearless  and  almost  manly  bearing,  made 
him  an  imposing  figure  on  the  scaffold  ;  and  even  in  the  hour  of 
death  he  inspired  something  like  dread  and  respect  in  the  vast  throngf 
that  witnessed  his  exit.  His  deep  depravity,  or,  perhaps,  more  cor- 
rectly speaking,  his  lack  of  a  moral  nature,  was  shown  at  the  las? 
moment  by  a  characteristic  act.  Just  before  he  was  hung  he 
"  kicked  off  his  shoeS;.'*  with  the  bratal  remark, 

"  Mother  often  said  I  would  die  like  a  trooper's  horse  with  aa^ 
^K)es  on  ;  but  !  will  make  hsr  a  liar.' 


128  NEAR    '10  NATURES  HEART, 


CHAPTER  XI. 

TBE    MOTHER    STILL    PROTECTS    HER    CHILD. 

THE  winter  had  passed  rather  drearily  and  unsatisfac- 
torily to  Saville.  The  garrison  at  Constitution  Island 
■was  small,  and  the  works  on  the  fortifications  advanced 
slowly.  Although  his  education  as  an  engineer  had  been 
superficial,  he  was  satisfied  that  Colonel  Roman's  draughts 
and  lines  of  defense  were  very  defective,  and  that  time  and 
money  were  spent  to  little  purpose.  Moreover,  his  visits  to 
the  western  shore,  and  his  excursions  after  game,  had  shown 
him  that  the  island  was  overlooked  and  commanded  by  more 
advantageous  points.  But  his  frank  statements  to  this  effect 
had  not  won  him  favor  with  his  superior  officers,  who  were 
ignorant  and  incompetent,  and  had  more  than  humanity's 
average  dislike  for  criticism.  Moreover,  Saville  was  so  often 
faulty  in  the  details  of  his  profession  as  to  be  frequently 
open  to  censure  himself,  and  his  prospects  of  promotion  were 
not  very  flattering.  He  would  have  much  preferred  active 
service  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy  ;  but  such  was  the 
dearth  of  engineers  that  he  was  kept  at  labors  much  too 
peaceful  for  his  fiery  spirit. 

He  had,  besides,  another  cause  for  dissatisfaction  and  un- 
easiness, which  also  increased  his  unpopularity  in  certain 
quarters.  It  was  impossible  for  one  of  his  frank  and  out- 
spoken nature  to  nurse  his  unbelief  in  silence.  He  even 
felt  it  a  privilege  and  a  duty  to  advocate  the  new  ideas  ac- 
quired abroad,  and  soon  had  quite  a  following   ef  young 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD.  129 

and  unstable  men,  to  whom  he  often  discoursed  in  his  glow- 
ing style  on  what  he  termed  "  the  absurd  and  antiquated  be- 
liefs and  systems  of  the  past,  originated  by  shrewd  old 
schemers  who  constructed  and  maintained  them  for  their 
own  advantage.  They  had  been  imposed  upon  men  in 
times  of  general  ignorance,"  he  said  ;  "  but  the  age  had 
come  when  men  would  use  their  reason,  and  break  away 
from  the  tyranny  of  custom  and  the  trammels  of  superstition. 
Man  should  be  true  to  himself,  and  obey  the  laws  which  he 
found  existing  in  his  own  nature,  instead  of  trembling  before 
an  imaginary  God  seated  on  a  throne  which  no  one  had 
ever  seen.  The  idea  of  men  in  the  eighteenth  century  bow- 
ing down  to  an  ancient  Hebrew  divinity  !  Why  not  also 
before  Isis,  Jupiter,  and  Odin?"  But  the  practical  results 
of  his  bold,  brilliant  theorizing  perplexed  and  troubled  him. 
So  far  as  his  sophistries  found  acceptance,  and  he  succeeded 
in  removing  from  his  listeners  the  idea  of  a  personal  God  to 
whom  they  were  accountable,  they  became  reckless,  vicious, 
and  generally  demoralized.  It  was  said,  and  with  seeming 
good  reason,  that  Saville  had  a  very  bad  influence  over  his 
associates.  It  was  not,  however,  the  man  himself,  but  his 
pernicious  opinions,  that  did  the  mischief.  Those  whose 
minds  he  poisoned  were  coarser-grained  than  he,  and  had 
not  his  resources  of  culture,  nor  his  repugnance  to  the  gross 
vices  of  the  camp.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  remonstrated  with 
them.  His  skeptical  words  had  broken  down  the  barriers  of 
a  wholesome  fear,  which,  with  many,  serves  for  a  time  in  the 
place  of  principle  ;  and  the  dark  tides  of  evil  flowed  in  un- 
restrained. Thus  he  unwittingly  made  them  uncongenial 
companions  for  himself ;  and,  as  spring  advanced,  and  his 
life  grew  lonely  and  isolated  as  he  recalled  his  wife's  unnat- 
ural course  toward  him  ;  as  he  remembered  that  his  mother 
was  grieving  over  his  action  as  a  great  misfortune  ;  as  he  saw 
those  who  had  in  a  measure  accepted  his  iconoclastic  and 


r30  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

skeptical  views  sinking  far  below  the  level  of  true  manhood, 
his  spirit  at  times  grew  bitter  and  resentful,  and  he  would 
say, 

"  Everything  I  touch  blackens,  and  even  to  my  mother  I 
am  only  a  source  of  sorrow  and  anxiety.  What  is  the  evi?. 
fatality  of  my  life  ?' ' 

But  his  nature  was  too  sanguine  and  healthful  for  any 
continued  morbid  brooding,  and  he  would  soon  throw  off 
the  burden  of  unhappy  thoughts,  and  hope  for  better  things. 

Vera's  quest  of  the  surgeon  had  renewed  his  interest  in 
one  whose  character  seemed  so  unique  that  he  felt  quite  a 
strong  desire  to  explore  further  ;  for  he  had  a  Frenchman's 
love  of  companionship,  providing  it  was  tolerably  congenial. 

The  difficulty  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  the  family 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  now  acted  only  as  an  in- 
centive. Perhaps  the  man  was  a  political  refugee,  and  what- 
ever was  the  cause  of  his  seclusion  he  and  his  certainly  did 
not  belong  to  the  class  of  vulgar  criminals.  Possibly,  if  he 
crossed  the  river  with  his  flute,  and,  within  hearing  of  the 
cabin,  played  the  air  which  he  and  Vera  had  come  to  asso- 
ciate with  each  other,  the  air  to  which  he  had  first  heard  her 
sing  the  exquisite  words, 

■'  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows," 

he  might  lure  the  young  girl  to  an  interview.  But,  recall- 
ing his  experience  with  the  fierce  dogs,  and  their  equally 
dangerous  master,  he  also  took  his  arms. 

Remembering  that  the  cabin  was  at  the  base  of  a  rocky 
height,  he  concluded  that,  by  scaling  this,  he  might  over- 
look the  habitation  unobserved.  The  lovely  spring  day  was 
declining  when  he  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  where 
now  are  the  ruins  of  Fort  Putnam,  and  found  that  he  could 
there,  among  the  sheltering  evergreens,  securely  carry  forward 
his  reconnoissance.     With  his  glass  he  was  able  to  subject 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD.  131 

everything  to  the  closest  scrutiny  ;  but  there  was  no  one  in 
sight,  and  even  the  great  dogs  were  not  visible.  At  first,  he 
hoped  that  the  man  had  gone  away  and  taken  them  with 
him,  and  he  was  about  to  tune  his  flute  to  the  musical  signal 
which  he  was  in  hopes  the  daughter  would  answer,  when 
his  attention  was  caught  by  an  ominous  heap  of  newly  turned 
earth  under  a  wide-spreading  elm  not  very  distant  from  the 
house.  Its  meaning  was  soon  shown,  for  the  door  of  the 
cottage  opened,  and  there  issued  forth  the  strangest  funeral 
procession  that  he  had  ever  seen.  It  consisted  only  of 
three  :  the  husband,  who  carried  upon  his  shoulder  the 
coffin  containing  the  light  and  wasted  form  of  his  wife  ; 
Vera,  and  old  Gula.  Vera  carried  a  large  cross  of  flowers, 
composed  of  the  white  blossoms  of  the  dog-wood  and  blood- 
root,  while  the  negress  followed  with  two  wreaths  of  ever- 
greens. Slowly,  and  with  bowed  heads,  they  carried  the 
wife  and  mother  from  one  lowly  home  to  the  last  and  most 
lowly  of  all.  Then  Gula  helped  her  master  to  lower  the 
coffin  into  the  grave,  while  Vera  stood  sobbing  by.  Nor 
would  she  permit  any  one  to  put  the  floral  cross  and  wreaths 
of  laurel  upon  the  coffin  of  her  mother  save  herself.  Then 
all  three  stood  a  few  moments  in  silence  at  the  side  of 
the  open  grave,  as  they  might  upon  the  shores  of  an  ocean 
across  which  one  very  dear  had  passed  beyond  their  reach. 
The  man,  with  folded  arms  and  bowed  head,  stood  as  mo- 
tionless as  a  statue,  while  Vera,  after  a  few  moments,  opened 
a  book,  which  Saville  afterward  learned  was  /he  Bible,  and 
with  a  voice  choked  with  sobs  and  interrupted  by  bitter  weep- 
ing, tried  to  read  those  sublime  and  inspired  words  which 
form  part  of  the  burial  service  in  all  Christian  lands,  com- 
mencing, 

"  So  also  is  the  resurrection  of  the  dead." 
Saville  had  become  so  intensely  interested  in  the  scene  that 
he  had  stolen  with  noiseless  tread  through  the  sheltering 


132  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART. 

cedars  sufficiently  near  to  catch  the  broken  utterances  ;  and 
although  he  had  heard  bishops  and  eloquent  men  read  those 
words,  never  before  had  he  been  so  impressed  with  them. 
Tears  of  sympathy  started  to  his  own  eyes,  and  he  thought, 

"  Poor  child,  that  beautiful  fiction  is  a  comfort  to  her 
now.  It's  a  pity  to  disturb  some  of  these  superstitions, 
since  they  soften  man}'-  of  the  inevitable  ills  of  our  lot  to 
those  who  can  believe." 

After  closing  the  Bible,  Vera  tried  to  chant  the  Twenty- 
third  Psalm,  which  her  mother  had  asked  for  just  before  her 
death  ;  but  after  a  few  broken,  plaintive  strains,  her  grief 
overpowered  her.  The  thought  of  that  dear  form  being 
covered  with  the  cold,  black  earth  was  too  terrible  to  be 
borne,  nor  would  she  remain  as  a  witness,  and  so  she  fled 
to  her  own  little  retreat  in  the  side  of  the  hill  back  of  the 
cabin.  Old  Gula  soon  tottered  after,  moaning  and  wring- 
ing her  hands  in  her  honest  grief. 

At  last  the  man  started  out  of  his  stony  paralysis,  and  seiz- 
ing the  spade,  worked  with  superhuman  energy  till  the  grave 
was  filled  and  mounded.  Then  going  to  the  house,  he  took 
his  rifle  and  started  up  the  glen.  He  was  soon  lost  to  view, 
and  the  place  became  as  silent  and  apparently  as  deserted  as 
when  Saville  first  saw  it. 

He  wondered  what  had  become  of  the  dogs.  Venturing 
down  into  the  valley,  a  little  distance  below  he  found  their 
dead  bodies.  Here  was  another  mystery.  He  waited  for  a 
time,  hoping  that  Vera  would  come  to  the  grave,  for  she 
seemed  so  alone  in  her  sorrow  that  he  longed  to  assure  her 
even  of  a  stranger' s  sympathy.  He  had  been  deeply  touched 
by  the  scene  he  had  witnessed,  and  his  curiosity  had  devel- 
oped into  the  most  kindly  interest.  He  felt  that  he  could 
not  go  away  until  he  had  told  her  that  if  he  could  ever  be 
of  help  to  her  she  must  come  to  him  again.  At  first,  hs 
thought  he  would  go  directly  to  the  door  and  ask  to  see  her ; 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD.  133 

but,  acting  upon  another  impulse,  he  sat  down  by  the  grave, 
and  commenced  playing  a  beautiful  dirge  that  he  had 
learned  abroad. 

He  was  soon  rewarded  by  seeing  the  door  open,  and  the 
maiden  appear,  looking  wonderingly  up,  as  if  she  thought 
the  music  came  from  the  air.  But,  on  recognizing  him, 
she  was  much  startled.  Still  she  did  not  tarn  away,  nor  did 
Saville  cease  his  music,  but  only  sought  to  give  it  a  more 
plaintive  and  tender  character.  After  a  moment's  debate 
with  herself,  Vera  approached  with  hesitating  steps,  like  a 
timid  fawn.  Then  Saville  arose,  and  taking  off  his  hat, 
awaited  her  coming. 

*'  Will  you  forgive  a  stranger  for  intruding  on  your  sorrow, 
when  his  only  motive  is  sympathy.?"   he  asked  gently. 

Vera  essayed  to  speak,  but  found  no  words. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  sorry  I  came.  I  would  not  force 
my  company  upon  you  now." 

"  No — oh,  no.  I  am  not  rorry.  I  think  God  sent  you. 
I  was  so  lonely,  it  seemed  as  if  my  heart  was  breaking. 
Pardon  me,  I  have  such  a  pain  here  (pressing  her  hand  upon 
her  side)  that  I  can  hardly  speak." 

"  I  feel  very  deeply  for  you,"  said  Saville  soothingly  ;  and 
he  took  her  hand  and  gave  her  a  seat  on  a  rock  beside  the 
grave.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  comfort  you? 
Though  a  stranger,  you  surely  can  trust  me  in  this  sacred 
place.  I  do  not  think  there  is  a  wretch  in  the  world  who 
could  harbor  an  injurious  thought  against  you  by  your 
mother' s  grave. ' ' 

"  I  am  sure  you  could  not, ' '  said  Vera  gratefully  ;  * '  and 
you  are  less  a  stranger  to  me  than  any  one  else  in.  all  the 
world." 

•*  Can  it  be  true  that  you  have  no  friends— no  acquaint- 
ances— beyond  the  inmates  of  the  cottage  there  ?" 

"  It  is  true  :  while  mother  lived  she  was  everything  to  me, 


134  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

and  when  I  saw  lier  placed  in  the  ground,  the  world  turned 
black.     If  she  could  only  have  taken  me  with  her  !" 

"  But  that  would  leave  the  world  *  black'  for  some  one 
else,"  said  Saville  gently.  **  That  might  be  more  than  your 
father  could  bear. " 

"  I  know  it's  selfish  and  wrong  for  one  to  feel  so  ;  espe- 
cially when  mother  is,  at  last,  well  and  happy  ;  though  just 
how  she  can  be  when  I  am  so  unhappy  is  hard  to  under 
stand." 

"  It  is,  indeed,  poor  child." 

"  It  will  seem  right  by  and  by,"  Vera  continued,  more 
calmly  and  patiently.  "  '  What  I  do  thou  knowest  not  now, 
but  thou  shalt  know  hereafter.'  Already  I  see  He  will  not 
make  the  burden  heavier  than  I  can  bear,  for  He  sent  you 
here  v/hen  it  seemed  I  could  not  endure  my  lonely  feelings 
any  longer." 

Saville  was  deeply  stirred,  for  he  was  by  nature  very  sym« 
pathetic  and  emotional.  But  he  must  have  been  unnaturally 
callous,  could  he  have  looked  unmoved  upon  Vera  as  she 
turned  to  him  in  her  terrible  isolation  and  sorrow.  Little 
other  claim  had  she  upon  him  save  that  of  kindred  human- 
ity ;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  the  only  one  that 
£ould  be  sent  out  of  the  strange  unfamiliar  world,  whose 
words  and  presence  would  not  be  a  burden. 

To  Saville,  led  as  he  was  ever  prone  to  be,  by  his  gener- 
osity and  imagination,  it  appeared  that  this  orphan,  in  her 
toneliness  and  bereavement,  had  the  most  sacred  claims 
upon  him.  Because  she  was  so  friendless  and  defenseless, 
his  chivalric  spirit  acknowledged  her  right  to  seek  help  from 
him. 

When  men  are  devoid  of  faith  in  a  personal  God  who  is 
intelligently  shaping  the  destiny  of  his  creatures,  and  con- 
trolling events,  they  are  prone  to  believe  in  such  vague  ab- 
stractions as  fate,   destiny,   and    fortune.     That  he  should 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD.  13S 

have  met  Vera  as  he  had  in  the  first  instance,  and  then  have 
received  her  at  the  island,  when  she  came  in  the  vain  hope 
©f  finding  help  for  her  mother  ;  that  the  young  girl  should 
take  his  proffered  sympathy  as  if  famishing  for  human  fel- 
lowship, and  even  in  her  strong  superstition  feel  that  her 
God  had  sent  him,— all  together  combined  to  kindle  his 
quick  fancy,  and  impressed  him  with  the  feeling  that  in  this 
case  humanity  asserted  one  of  the  strongest  claims  that 
would  ever  rest  upon  him.  At  the  same  time,  he  was  not 
conscious  of  the  degree  in  which  Vera's  beauty,  youth,  and 
uniqueness  of  character  emphasized  this  claim. 

With  all  his  faults,  he  had  no  small  vanity  to  mislead 
him,  and  was  sufficiently  pure  and  noble  to  understand 
Vera's  innocent  welcome  and  frank  expression  of  relief  tha* 
he  had  come.  He  regarded  her  feeling  as  an  intense  desire 
to  escape  from  the  awful  solitude  of  sorrow.  Sympathy  froiE 
one's  own  kind  is  one  of  the  deepest  and  most  instinctive 
wants  of  the  heart;  and  there  are  times  when  it  must  be 
had  or  the  consequences  are  disastrous.  No  nature  that  i£ 
human  is  self-sufficient  in  every  emergency  of  life  ;  for  eveis 
the  pure  and  perfect  human  nature  of  our  Lord,  though  al- 
lied with  Divinit}',  pleaded  with  the  drowsy  disciple^ 
"Watch  with  me."  This  request  was  not  a  mere  form, 
nor  a  test  of  their  loyalty,  but  the  inevitable  appeal  for  sup- 
port which  ever  comes  from  suffering.  The  larger  and  moJ« 
perfect  the  nature,  the  more  deeply  is  this  want  felt  But, 
while  human  kindness  and  consideration  can  do  much  to 
assuage  this  eager  hunger  of  the  heart,  it  cannot  satisfy. 
The  experience  of  Gethsemane  is  well-nigh  universal,  and 
there  come  to  all,  hours  of  darkness  when  earthly  friendship 
is  as  unavailable  as  that  of  the  men  who  slept  through 
their  Master's  grief  when  he  was  but  a  *'  stone's  ca^' 
»way. 

How  true  this  was  in  Vera's  experience  will  be  seen  here* 
2oE— YIII— G 


r3&  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

after  ;  but  now  she  saw  that  the  stranger,  toward  whom  hei 
thoughts  had  so  often  turned,  was  strangely  moved  in  her 
behalf,  and  it  greatly  comforted  her.  She  felt  almost  sure 
that  God  had  sent  him,  and  that  he  would  become  such  a 
friend  as  her  mother  desired  her  to  gain, — one  that  would 
enable  her  to  make  further  acquaintance  with  her  fellow 
creatures,  and  escape  from  her  dangerous  isolation.  The 
thought  of  anything  like  love,  which  might  end  in  an  aUi- 
ance  with  this  young  man  had  never  entered  her  mind.  She 
did  not  know  what  love  was,  save  that  lo\'e  which,  in  its 
tranquil  phases  had  swayed  her  since  childhood. 

As  has  been  said,  Saville  was  large-minded  enough  to  un- 
derstand that  she  welcomed  him  as  a  captive  might ;  and 
that  he,  in  some  degree,  satisfied  a  natural  craving  for  sym- 
pathy and  companionship.  He  also  saw  that  she  was  as  guile- 
less and  ignorant  of  the  world,  as  she  was  friendless  and  in 
need  of  guardianship  ;  and  every  generous  trait  in  his  nature 
responded  to  her  unconscious  appeal.  He  took  her  hand, 
and  said, 

"  You  are,  indeed,  very  much  alone  in  the  world.  I 
never  knew  any  one  quite  so  friendless,  who  was  as  good  as 
you  are." 

"  You  are  almost  the  only  one  I  have  ever  spoken  to,  save 
mother,  father,  and  old  Gula,"  replied  Vera,  looking  into 
his  face  as  frankly  and  gratefully  as  a  little  child. 

' '  Would  you  like  to  speak  to  me  often  .?  Would  you 
like  to  have  me  as  a  friend  to  whom  you  could  tell  your 
troubles,  and  from  whom  you  could  ask  help  and  advice 
without  any  fear  ?  I  am  willing  to  be  a  brother  to  you  as 
nearly  as  I  can." 

Vera's  lovely  face  was  fairly  illumined  with  gratitude  ; 
but,  without  removing  her  frank  and  childlike  gaze,  before 
which  a  bad  and  designing  man  would  have  shrunk  abashed, 
she  said,  earnestly, 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD,  137 

*'  And  can  you  offer  so  much  to  one  who  has  so  little 
claim  upon  you  ?' ' 

"  Who  could  have  a  stronger  claim  ?  Your  need,  your 
loneliness  and  sorrow,  your  youth,  beauty,  and  ignorance 
of  the  world  and  its  dangers,  would  awaken  a  chivalrous 
spirit  m  the  basest  of  men  ;  and  such,  believe  me,  I  am 
not,  with  all  my  faults.  Let  me,  then,  be  a  friend  and 
brother,  till  you  can  find  better  and  more  helpful  friends." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  I  could  use  you  only  as  a  step- 
ping-stone on  which  to  cross  a  rough  place  ?' '  said  Vera,  a 
little  reproachfully.  "  Ingratitude  is  a  '  marble-hearted 
fiend. '  No  friend  can  ever  take  the  place  of  one  who  has 
been  kind  to  me  at  this  time.  But,  humble  and  friendle^ 
as  I  am,  there  are  conditions  of  which  I  must  speak  first.  I 
am,  indeed,  alone.  There  is  no  one  to  guide  or  counsel 
me,  and  I  must  follow  mother's  teachings  and  words,  as  far 
as  I  can  remember  them.  She  told  me  that  if  I  ever  made 
friends,  the  first  thing  I  must  try  to  be  sure  of  was  their 
truthfulness  ;  for  she  said  no  good  qualities  could  take  the 
place  of  truth,  and  that,  if  this  were  lacking,  all  else  would 
fail.  I  feel  sure  that  you  are  true  and  honorable.  My  heart 
telb  me  that  you  are.  You  would  not  deceive  me  anywhere, 
much  less  here,"  with  a  little,  eloquent  gesture  toward  the 
spot  where  her  mother  was  sleeping.  "  Will  you  promise 
me  that  your  friendship  will  ever  tend  to  help  me  live  and 
feel  as  that  dear  mother  would  wish .?  I  believe  God  will 
permit  her  to  be  near  me,  and  I  wish  her  to  see  no  change, 
no  forgetfulness  of  her,  or  any  of  her  words.  I  would  rather 
live  alone  all  my  life  in  these  mountains,  and  never  see  any 
one,  than  grieve  her.  My  only  request  is,  that  you  will  help 
me  to  remain  true  to  her  teachings,  and  to  live  in  a  way  that 
I  know  will  be  pleasing  to  her." 

Saville  hesitated  a  moment,  for  Vera  was  asking  more  than 
she  could  understand.     According  to  his  opinions  the  best 


138  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART 

service  he  could  render  this  young  girl  was  to  enlighten  he? 
mind,  and  break  the  chains  of  superstition.  And  yet  his 
theory  in  this  case  failed  signally,  for  that  superstition  was 
now  her  only  comfort — the  rock  that  sustained  her  above 
the  dark  waves  of  sorrow.  He  might  better  stab  the  girl 
looking  up  wistfully  at  him,  than  hint  that  her  mother  was 
not  living  and  that  there  was  no  such  place  as  heaven. 
Then  the  thought  flashed  into  his  mind  :  could  his  philos- 
ophy make  her  more  true,  innocent,  and  lovely  in  character, 
than  had  those  mother's  teachings,  to  which  she  was  so 
pathetically  seeking  to  be  loyal  ?  His  experience  as  its 
teacher  had  not  been  encouraging  ;  and  had  he  not  better 
leave  the  spells  of  early  years  unbroken,  in  this  instance  ? 
The  moment's  reflection  convinced  him  that  any  other 
course  would  be  most  cruel,  and  perhaps  disastrous  ;  and 
therefore  he  said  solemnly, 

"  I  promise  what  you  ask  ;  and  when  I  see  what  your 
mother's  teaching  and  example  have  made  you,  I  feel  assured 
that  I  am  acting  right." 

Thus  again  Saville  gave  a  pledge  which  would  in  the  future 
confront  him,  and  rise  like  a  wall  across  his  path. 

But  Vera  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  and  said,  "  I  am 
content.  I  now  have  done  just  as  mother  would  wish," 
and  she  looked  as  fondly  at  the  grave  as  if  it  were  an  intel- 
ligent face. 

For  a  little  while  Saville  watched  her  wonderingly  in  si- 
lence, and  then  asked  abruptly, 

■"  You  have  never  told  me  your  name." 

' '  Vera — Vera  Brown. ' ' 

"  Vera  !  it's  a  most  appropriate  name." 

' '  It  was  appropriate  to  mother,  and  it  was  given  to  me  by 
father,  because  he  said  she  had  been  so  true  to  him.  Oh  ! 
how  I  wish  you  had  come  sooner,"  she  added,  with  a  sud- 
den rush  of  tears. 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD.  1 39 

"  Why  do  you  wish  I  had  come  sooner  ?" 
*'  Mother  wished  to  see  you/' 
"  Indeed  !  did  she  know  anything  about  me  ?" 
"  She  knew  all  that  I  did.     I  never  hid  a  thought  from 
her,  and  never  shall,  for  I  think  God  will  let  her  come  back 
to  me  and  be  my  guardian  spirit.      Can  you  think  I  did  not 
tell  her  of  your  great  kindness  when  I  went  for  the  surgeon  ? 
She  wanted  to  see  you  and  thank  you,"   and  Vera's  tears 
fell  fast. 

"  \^1iy  did  you  not  come  for  me  ?" 
"  I  did  venture  once  to  the  shore,  but  there  was  a  feeling 
which  I  cannot  explain  that  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  ask 
you  to  come,  though  I  so  much  wished  you  would,"  said 
Vera,  unconsciously  revealing  the  maidenly  reserve,  which, 
though  not  understood,  controlled  her.  "  I  was  in  hopes 
you  might  come  again  of  your  own  accord." 

"  I  ought  to  have  done  so  ;  and  yet  I  feared  I  might  be 
an  intruder. 

"  You  have  no  reason  to  blame  yourself,  after  the  treat- 
ment you  received  from  father  and  myself.  I  had  no  cause 
to  expect  yon  ;  I  only  hoped." 

"lam.  still  to  blame,"  said  Saville  ;  "  for  while  your 
voice  forbade  me  to  come,  I  thought  I  saw  in  your  eyes  the 
need  of  sympathy  and  help." 

' '  You  saw  what  was  true,  indeed. 

"  Besides,  you  spoke  your  father' swill,  and  not  your  own 

wish. 

An  expression  of  pain  flitted  across  the  girl's  face.  For  a 
moment  she  sat  still  in  deep  embarrassment,  trying  to  think 
how  she  should  explain  her  father's  action,  past  and  pros- 
pective :  but  she  knew  so  little  herself,  and  the  whole  sub- 
ject was  so  mysterious  and  sad,  that  she  was  at  a  loss  to  find 

words. 

Her  truth,  however,  and   her  simplicity  served  her  better 


I40  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

than  skill  or  concealment ;  for  at  last  she  turned  a  little 
abruptly  to  Saville,  and  with  eyes  washed  clear  by  many  tears 
said, 

"  My  father  met  with  a  misfortune  in  England.  What  it 
was  I  do  not  know  ;  neither  he  nor  mother  ever  told  me. 
But  he  had  to  leave  his  home  ;  so  he  brought  mother  here, 
and  here  I  was  bom,  and  here  we  have  lived  ever  since  : 
now  you  know  all  that  I  do.  Mother  thought  that  father's 
troubles  and  his  long  seclusion  from  the  world  had  a  bad 
influence  on  his  mind,  and  once  told  me  that  he  had  greatly 
changed  from  his  former  self.  But,  like  Cordelia,  '  I  love 
him  according  to  my  bond, '   and  with  her  could  cry, 

'  O  my  father  !     Restoration,  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips  ;  and  let  my  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,' 

But  from  you  I  can  ask  only  forbearance  ;  the  same  generous 
courtesy  that  you  showed  when  you  said  to  me,  *  Charity 
thinketh  no  evil.'  " 

This  statement,  so  simple,  guileless,  and  yet  enriched  by 
an  apt  allusion  to  one  whose  character  she  seemed  to  p>os- 
sess,  greatly  pleased  Saville.  Whatever  had  been  the  act 
that  clouded  the  father's  life,  not  even  the  shadow  of  its 
knowledge  rested  upon  the  mind  of  the  child. 

"  Your  thoughts  are  as  crystal  as  yonder  spring,"  he 
said  ;  "  and  yet  you  are  enshrouded  in  mystery.  How 
came  you  so  conversant  with  the  two  great  books  of  the 
world  ?' ' 

"  There  is  no  mystery  about  that ;  they  are  the  only  books 
we  have.  I  learned  to  read  in  them,  and  they  have  been  my 
companions  ever  since.  What  I  should  have  done  without 
them,  often,  I  scarcely  know." 

"  Which  of  the  two  do  you  like  the  better  ?" 

*'  Oh  I  the  Bible,   of  course.     But  a  year  ago  I  found 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD.  141 

more  pleasure  in  the  plays,  and  I  never  could  get  weary  of 
them  ;  but  when  mother  began  to  fail,  and  my  heart  to 
sink  with  dread,  the  plays  would  not  answer.  I  wanted 
something  like  the  kind  voice  of  a  living  being  speaking  to 
me,  and  so  I  have  read  the  Bible  altogether  of  late. ' ' 

"  And  does  the  Bible  seem  like  a  living  voice  speaking  to 
you  ?" 

"  Why,  surely  ;  the  Bible  is  God's  Word.  Sometimes  I 
hear  mother's  favorite  text  so  plainly — '  Let  not  your  heart 
be  troubled '  — that  I  look  around,  half  expecting  to  see 
some  one." 

Saville  sighed,  as  he  thought,  "  What  a  pity  her  belief  is 
not  true  !"  but  he  said,  changing  the  subject, 

"  Will  you  let  me  ask  about  another  mystery  ?  How  does 
it  happen  that  your  two  great  dogs  lie  dead  yonder  ?' ' 

"  There  is  a  mystery  concerning  those  two  humble  friends, 
which  perhaps  you  can  help  us  solve.  When  I  found  them 
dead  this  morning,  I  felt  very  badly.  It  seemed  as  if  death 
still  hovered  around  us  ;  and  yet  God  preserved  us  so  won- 
derfuUy  from  greater  harm,  that  we  have  only  reason  to  be 
grateful."  Then  she  told  him  of  the  night  alarm,  and  the 
intrusion  of  the  robber  within  the  cabin.  ' '  But  after  he 
entered,"  continued  Vera,  "  he  did  not  speak,  and  scarcely 
moved  until  he  turned  and  abruptly  left  the  room  ;  and  then, 
judging  from  the  sound  of  their  horses'  feet,  they  went  as  if 
flying  for  their  lives.  I  unbarred  and  unbolted  the  door,  so 
that  we  might  be  solely  in  God's  hands  ;  and  He  protected 
us  as  He  did  the  prophet,  when  cast  into  the  lion's  den." 

"  This  is  very  strange,"   mused  Saville  frowningly. 

"  Do  you  think  they  were  soldiers?  Their  coming  haa 
troubled  father  terribly. ' ' 

'  You  say  they  came  up  the  valley  from  the  south,  and 
continued  northward." 

"Yes." 


t4t  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART. 

**  I  scarcely  think  they  were  any  of  our  men.  It  is  more 
probable  that  they  belong  to  a  class  of  dangerous  wretches 
that  are  becoming  very  troublesome.  They  pretend  to  be 
Tories  or  Royahsts,  but  usually  plunder  either  party  as  they 
get  a  chance." 

"  Oh  !  thank  God,  who  kept  us  from  the  8'/il** 

*'  i  do  indeed  shudder  to  think  of  your  situation  last 
night,"  said  Saville,  growing  pale  at  the  thought  of  the 
young  girl's  peril.  *'  But,  to  quote  from  one  of  your  fa- 
vorite books,  *  Conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all. '  Thess 
guilty  rascals  are  very  superstitious,  and  no  doubt  your 
mother's  dead  face  was  more  protection  than  an  armed  man. 
But  it  troubles  me  greatly  to  think  of  you  as  so  isolated  and 
unshielded. ' ' 

"  i  shall  continue  to  trust  in  God,"  said  Vera  calmly. 

"  That  is  right  ;  keep  up  your  faith  and  courage,"  re- 
plied  Saville  heartily  ;  adding  mentally,  "  Poor  child  !  never 
was  delusion  more  harmless  and  useful  than  in  your  case." 

The  twilight  was  now  deepening  fast ;  still  it  had  not  grown 
so  dark  but  that  Vera's  father  could  be  plainly  seen  advanc- 
ing toward  them.  When  he  sav;  Saville,  he  stopped  abrupt- 
ly, and  took  his  rifle  down  from  his  shoulder,  with  the  in- 
stinctive action  of  one  who  suddenly  thinks  himself  in  the 
presence  of  danger.  But  Vera  rose  promptly,  and  taking 
her  companion's  hand,  led  him  forward,  saying, 

**  Father,  this  is  Mr.  Saville,  who  was  very  kind  to  me 
when  I  went  for  the  surgeon. ' ' 

The  man's  recognition  was  so  cold  and  distant  as  to  be 
forbidding,  whereupon  Vera  continued,  in  a  tone  whose 
firmness  and  decision  excited  Saville' s  surprise,  and  proved 
that  she  had  unusual  force  of  character, 

'*  You  remember  mother  said  that  if  he  came  again  yoo 
must  treat  him  with  kindness  and  courtesy  ;  and  from  hence- 
forth mother's  will  must  be  your  law  and  mine." 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD.  I43 

This  reference  to  his  dead  wife  disarmed  the  man  at 
once.  The  known  wishes  of  a  loved  one  who  has  died  are 
often  far  more  potent  than  were  strong  entreaties  when  urged 
face  to  face  ;  and  the  husband's  mind  was  not  so  warped 
but  that  he  was  suffering  from  the  remorseful  impression  that 
he  had  not  been  as  considerate  of  his  wife  as  both  duty  and 
his  own  affection  required,  and  he  was  in  a  mood  to  make 
amends.  It  was  only  his  strongly  rooted  habit  of  shunning 
and  repelling  strangers  that  now  stood  between  him  and  this 
the  first  visitor  who  had  broken  in  upon  his  solitude  for  so 
many  long  years.  But  Vera  was  gladdened  by  seeing  him 
master  this,  though  evidently  by  a  great  effort,  and  give  his 
hand  to  Saville  in  something  like  a  welcome. 

"  The  wishes  of  the  dead  are  indeed  sacred,"  he  said  ; 
**  and  I  hope  that  neither  myself  nor  my  daughter  will  ever 
have  cause  to  regret  our  acquaintance." 

*'  I  pledge  you  the  word  of  a  gentleman,  you  shall  not,"  ■ 
replied  Saville  heartily  ;  ' '  and  to  the  extent  of  my  power 
as  an  officer  I  will  extend  you  protection  while  I  am  in  this 
locality." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  go  away,"  said  Vera  in  a  low  tone  ; 
Iwt  there  was  more  entreaty  in  her  wistful  look  than  in  her 
words. 

"The  chief  element  in  a  soldier's  life  is  uncertainty.  I 
must  obey  orders,  and  there  is  prospect  of  a  very  active  cam- 
paign. But  wherever  I  am,  I  shall  not  forget  you,  nor  cease 
to  use  what  influence  I  possess  in  your  behalf." 

Mr.  Brown  now  went  so  far  as  to  ask  Saville  into  the  cabin, 
where  Gula  had  prepared  as  good  a  supper  as  her  slender 
materials  permitted,  Saville' s  high  breeding  and  familiarity 
with  the  world  enabled  him  to  talk  with  ease  and  grace, 
while  his  tact  and  genuine  sympathy  for  the  afflicted  house- 
hold made  his  words  like  oil  that  calmed  the  troubled  waters 
in  the  souls  of  each  of  his  listeners  ;  for,  beyond  a  few  eager 


144  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

questions  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Brown  in  r^^ard  to  the  progresi 
^f  the  war,  both  father  and  daughter  were  well  content  to 
listen  rather  than  speak,  when  their  hearts  wei«  so  full  of 
sorrow,  and  their  lips  sealed  by  so  much  mystery.  Gleams 
of  hope  and  almost  exultation  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  fear- 
haunted  man,  as  Saville  told  him  of  the  forced  and  hasty 
evacuation  of  Boston,  on  the  part  of  the  British  troops,  of 
which  event  vague  rumors  only  had  reached  the  mountain 
cabin. 

"  But,  after  all,"  he  asked,  "  can  the  American  Colonies 
make  any  prolonged  resistance  to  the  enormous  power  <rf 
England?" 

"Yes,"  cried  Saville  enthusiastically;  "  we  are  on  the 
eve  of  complete  and  final  independence,  and  on  this  new 
continent  will  be  built  up  a  system  of  life  and  government 
which  will  revolutionize  the  world." 

The  haggard  face  of  his  host  lighted  up  as  he  caught 
something  of  the  young  man's  spirit ;  but  soon  the  shadoMr 
fell  across  it  again,  and  he  shook  his  head,  saying, 

"  England's  power  is  almost  without  limit,  and  Englida 
blood  is  slow  to  heat  and  slov.'  to  cool.  Rest  assured  it  will 
be  a  long  fight" 

"Yes,  and  a  hard  one,"  added  Saville  thoughtfully; 
*•  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  severest  part  of  the 
Struggle  will  be  for  the  possession  of  this  river.  For  that 
reason  I  may  be  of  service  to  you,  as  this  region  become 
crowded  with  troops." 

While  Saville  and  her  father  were  dwelling  on  the  military 
and  political  aspects  of  the  situation.  Vera' s  eyes  and  thoughts 
often  wandered  out  into  the  darkness  that  concealed  the  little 
mound  which  was  still  ever  present  to  her  mind,  and  as  the 
last  words  were  uttered,  she  sighed, 

' '  Perhaps  mother  has  escaped  from  ills  too  great  for  her  to 
bear." 


THE  MOTHER  STILL  PROTECTS  HER  CHILD.  145 

"  It  shall  be  my  effort  that  you  escape  from  as  many  as 
possible  also,  though  not  by  flight  into  the  unknown,"  said 
Saville,  generously  hoping  to  do  more  than  circumstances 
would  probably  permit,  to  show  his  friendship.  '  And  now, 
sir,"  he  continued,  giving  his  hand  to  his  host,  as  he  rose 
to  depart,  ' '  you  cannot  fail  to  trust  me  after  to-day  ;  for  I 
have  broken  bread  with  you,  and  were  I  a  wild  Arab,  I  could 
never  entertain  an  injurious  thought  against  you  or  yours." 

This  cordiality  toward  his  host  was  somewhat  the  result 
of  policy  ;  for  he  saw  that  if  he  would  be  of  service  to  the 
daughter,  he  must  disarm  the  suspicions  of  the  father. 
Moreover,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  man's 
offense  had  been  of  a  political  nature,  for  in  his  words  and 
bearing  there  was  no  suggestion  of  vulgar  crime. 

To  Vera's  hand  he  gave  a  strong  pressure,  as  he  said,  "  If 
anything  I  can  say  or  do  will  cheer  you,  I  will  soon  come 
again." 

' '  You  have  cheered  and  comforted  me  more  than  I  could 
have  believed  possible,"  said  the  maiden  gratefully  ;  and 
she  added,  with  the  frankness  of  a  child,  ' '  I  hope  you  will 
come  soon  and  often. 


346  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

BEACON    FIRES. 

SAVILLE  was  not  slow  in  keeping  his  promise,  and  bs* 
came  a  frequent  guest  at  the  little  cabin  among  ths 
mountains.  His  visits,  which  at  first  were  made  largely  from 
sympathy,  soon  became  sources  of  so  much  pleasure,  that 
he  was  ready  to  avail  himself  of  any  pretest  which  gave  hiia 
for  a  few  hours  the  society  of  one  who  was  more  ^scinating 
than  if  schooled  in  social  arts.  And  yet  such  was  her  ycmth 
and  simplicity,  and  so  undisguised  was  her  wonder  as  hs  (te- 
scribed  scenes  and  life  in  New  York  and  Europe,  that  shs 
seemed  to  him  only  an  intelligent  child,  whom  It  was  a  de- 
light to  instruct.  Congenial  companionship  was  a  necessity 
of  the  young  man's  nature  ;  and  in  Vera  he  found  so  mucb 
delicacy  and  refinement,  combined  with  such  utter  absence 
of  conventionality,  and  entire  ignorance  of  the  form  and  eti- 
quette of  the  times,  that  she  appeared  to  confirm  his  Utopian 
dreams  o£  a  liberty  so  large  that  the  impulses  of  nature  would 
become  the  only  laws.  But  nature,  to  Saviile  and  Vera,  had 
very  different  meanings.  To  the  one  it  was  an  existing 
order  of  things  that  he  could  not  account  for,  but  in  which 
man  was  supreme,  and  a  law  unto  himsell  To  the  other 
it  was  the  creation  and  dwelling-place  of  a  Divine,  all-pow« 
erful  Being,  who  was,  at  the  same  time,  her  Father  and  friend. 
In  the  beauty  and  purity  of  Vera's  character  Saviile  saw  the 
effects  of  this  belief,  but  he  erred  greatly  in  supposing  all  to 
be  the  result  of  earthly  causes.     The  development  of  the 


BEACON  FIRES.  147 

soul,  under  the  influence  of  a  Divine,  ever-present  Spirit, 
was  a  truth  concerning  which  he  had  little  knowledge  and 
no  faith. 

Of  his  own  great  trouble  and  disappointment  he  never 
spoke  to  any  one.  His  wife's  conduct  was  more  than  a 
sorrow,  and  had  become  rather  a  bitter  shame  and  disgrace, 
to  which  his  proud  spirit  could  not  endure  the  slightest  al- 
lusion. Not  even  to  his  mother  had  he  mentioned  her  name 
since  the  evening  she  crossed  his  threshold  for  the  last  time. 
It  was  his  wish  to  forget  her  existence  ;  for  his  blood  tingled 
as  he  remembered  how  easily  she  had  duped  him,  and  how 
blindly  and  stupidly  he  had  wrecked  his  happiness.  While, 
therefore,  he  spoke  frankly  to  Vera  of  his  mother,  and  of  , 
his  life  abroad  and  in  New  York,  he  maintained  the  habit 
of  silence,  in  regard  to  his  wife,  which  was  already  fastened 
upon  him. 

Vera  had  disarmed  at  once  the  bitter  and  misanthropic 
thoughts,  which  a  man  with  his  experience  is  prone  to  cherish 
toward  the  entire  sex.  No  mountain  stream  could  be  more 
transparent  than  this  child  of  nature,  who  had  learned  none 
of  art's  disguises.  When,  from  instinct,  she  manifested 
maidenly  reserve,  the  cause  was  as  apparent  as  the  effect. 
Her  perfect  guilelessness  deepened  the  impression,  that  Sa- 
ville  had  formed  from  the  first,  that  she  was  but  a  child  ;  and 
his  warm  and  growing  affection  was  that  of  a  brother  for  a 
younger  sister,  who  accepts  wonderingly  and  trustingly  his 
superiority  in  all  things.  And  yet  there  was  withal  a  certain 
womanly  dignity  which  often  puzzled  Saville,  and  made  it 
impossible  for  him  to  indulge  in  the  innocent  caresses  which 
are  natural  between  brother  and  sister. 

As  for  the  young  girl,  she  no  more  thought  of  analyzing 
her  feeling  toward  her  new  found  friend  than  would  the 
mind  of  a  famished  man  dwell  upon  the  chemical  constituents 
of  the  food  that  was  giving  him  a  new  lease  of  life.     She 


i48  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

did  indeed  love  Saville,  and  she  knew  it ;  but  her  strong 
and  deepening  regard  caused  no  more  unrest  than  had  the 
tender  yet  tranquil  affections  which  had  hitherto  governed 
her.  She  loved  him  like  a  sister,  and  yet  with  more  inten- 
sity than  that  relation  usually  awakens.  She  loved  him  from 
a  deep  and  abiding  sense  of  gratitude.  He  had  been  a 
friend  in  the  sorest  extremity  of  her  life,  and  had  come  as  a 
deliverer  when  her  heart  was  breaking  in  her  terrible  anguish 
and  loneliness.  He  had  rescued  her  from  the  agony  which 
pierced  like  a  mortal  thrust,  as  she  realized  that  her  mother 
was  buried  from  her  sight ;  and  he  had  gently  and  tenderly 
sought  to  comfort  and  divert  her  thoughts  ever  since.  She 
loved  him  for  the  same  reason  that  many  others  of  her  sex 
would  :  because  he  was  lovable,  and  possessed  the  traits  that 
usually  win  esteem.  He  was  brave  ;  he  was  manly  in  his 
appearance  and  bearing  ;  frank  and  affable  in  his  manner  ; 
and  more  than  all,  possessed  tact,  and  the  power  of  adapting 
himself  to  the  moods  and  characters  of  his  associates.  He 
could  be  most  fascinating  when  he  chose  to  exert  himself ; 
and  both  inclination  and  every  generous  impulse  led  him  to 
do  all  in  his  power  to  cheer  the  orphan,  who  looked  to  him 
as  the  sole  friend  she  possessed.  But  perhaps  the  tenderest 
element  -in  her  affection  was  the  result  of  her  mother's 
knowledge  of  him,  and  her  belief  that  he  would  prove  the 
deliverer  who  would  open  a  way  of  escape  from  an  isolation 
which  she  saw,  more  and  more  clearly,  would  be  fraught 
with  danger  and  unhappiness.  He  had  shown  kindness  to 
her  mother,  and  his  gift  of  the  brandy  had  made  the  pain 
and  weakness  of  her  last  days  more  easily  borne.  Under 
the  circumstances,  and  with  her  nature,  how  could  she  do 
otherwise  than  love  this  stranger  knight,  who  had  done  so 
much  to  help  and  relieve  from  sore  distress  .? 

And  yet  there  was  a  depth  in  her  heart  in  which  the  name 
of  Saville  had  never  sounded.     If  he  had  told  her  that  he 


BEACON  FIRES,  149 

dad  a  trae  and  loving  wife  in  New  York,  her  heart  would 
have  bounded  with  joy  ;  for  in  that  wife  she  would  hope  to 
find  another  friend,  of  her  own  sex.  She  could  love  her  at 
once  for  his  sake.  If,  in  brotherly  confidence,  he  had  toW 
her  of  another  maiden  that  he  loved,  no  sister  would  has^S 
sympathized  more  unselfishly  and  heartily.  Savilie  ^b3* 
right ;  Vera  was  still  a  child. 

With  no  disposition  to  monopolize  her  as  a  discovery  of 
his  ov^^l,  Savilie  was  perfectly  ready  to  introduce  other  oflS- 
cers,  whose  characters  warranted  the  privilege,  at  the  moun- 
tain cabin.  But  it  was  found  that  its  master  was  so  morbidly 
averse,  as  yet,  to  any  extension  of  acquaintance,  that  as 
Vera's  request,  he  waited  until  circumstances  should  break 
dov.a  the  barriers.  Her  father's  intense  interest  in  the 
progress  of  the  war  grew  more  and  more  apparent,  and  th^ 
believed  that  if  he  could  be  induced  to  take  an  open  part  iii 
the  struggle,  his  mental  disorder  would  pass  away.  Al° 
though,  at  limes,  he  seemed  almost  ready  to  yield  to  their 
wishes,  his  old  habit  of  shrinking  caution  and  demoralizing 
fear  would  suddenly  resume  its  sway  and  disappoint  them. 

That  this  was  true  was  most  unfortunate  ;  for,  as  the  seasos 
advanced,  the  whole  country  became  pervaded  with  rumors 
of  Tory  plots  and  uprisings.  The  arrival  of  British  forces 
was  daily  expected  at  New  York,  and  it  was  said  that  the 
loyalists  in  the  city  and  along  the  shores  of  the  Hudson 
were  in  league  to  rise,  on  the  advent  of  large  bodies  of  sup- 
porting English  troops.  It  was  a  time  of  general  distrust 
Near  neighbors  regarded  each  other  with  suspicion,  and  oftea 
with  good  cause.  Spies  were  everywhere  plying  their  trade 
of  drawing  from  the  unwary,  secrets  that  might  prove  ruin- 
ous. It  was  a  bad  time  for  people  who  could  not  or  did 
not  fully  account  for  themselves  ;  therefore,  the  man  who, 
among  the  few  that  were  aware  of  his  existence,  went  by  th® 
name  of  '*  Skaikin'  Brown/'  could  not  iail  to  become  a» 


150  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

object  of  suspicion.  There  were  increasing  rumors,  which 
had  no  other  foundation  than  the  excited  imaginations  of 
people  who  feared  danger  on  every  side,  and  only  the  fact 
that  nothing  definite  was  alleged  against  him,  prevented  a 
self-appointed  delegation  from  waiting  on  him  with  notice 
to  decamp  to  parts  unknown. 

But,  in  the  garrison  at  Fort  Montgomery,  rumor  began  to 
take  more  tangible  and  ominous  form  ;  for  Molly,  sharing 
in  all  her  mother's  prejudices  against  the  neighbors  who  had 
been  so  secluded  and  unsocial,  began  to  give  out  many  dark 
hints  of  what  she  had  surmised  rather  than  seen  ;  and  these 
intimations  constantly  gained  in  evil  suggestion  as  they  be- 
came the  staple  gossip  around  the  camp  fire. 

The  artillery  company  to  which  her  husband  belonged 
had  been  stationed  for  a  time  at  Fort  Montgomery,  but  had 
recently  been  recalled  to  Fort  Constitution  ;  and  Larry  was 
glad  to  get  back,  for  after  his  experience  as  sentinel,  he  re- 
garded the  east  side  of  the  river  as  the  safer  one.  He  and 
his  wife  naturally  gravitated  toward  that  class  among  the 
soldiery  who  were  as  ignorant  and  superstitious  as  them- 
selves ;  and  loquacious,  rash-speaking  Molly  was  not  long 
in  convincing  her  associates  that  old  Gulawasa  "  hay  then," 
and  in  league  with  the  Evil  One,  and  that  Vera  was  her 
disciple. 

These  rumors  soon  took  such  shape  as  to  become  the 
topic  of  conversation  among  the  officers,  and  thus  Saville 
heard  of  them.  Alarmed  for  the  safety  of  Vera,  he  promptly 
sought  their  origin,  and  was  not  long  in  tracing  them  to  the 
daughter  of  the  old  crone  who  had  disgusted  him  with  her 
envenomed  but  baseless  innuendo  on  the  afternoon  when 
he  and  Larr}'  first  saw  the  nymph  of  the  potato  field.  At 
first,  he  sought  to  reason  with  Molly,  and  awaken  her  sym- 
pathies for  the  motherless  girl.  But,  on  the  mention  of 
Vera,  the  coarse-fibered  woman  only  tossed  her  head,  with 


BEACON  FIRES.  1%X 

something  like  a  leer  on  her  bold,  handsome  face  ;  and  Sa» 
villa,  with  indignation,  saw  that  she  gave  him  credit  for  very 
different  motives  from  those  of  commiseration  and  friendly 
regard  for  the  maiden  he  was  seeking  to  protect.  Therefore 
he  said,  with  a  sudden  anger  and  sternness,  before  which 
even  the  reckless  termagant  quailed, 

"  Beware  how  you  or  your  husband  whisper  another  lie 
against  those  who  are  under  my  protection.  If  you  even 
hint  anything  you  cannot  prove,  I  will  have  you  drummed 
out  of  camp." 

This,  to  Molly,  was  a  dire  threat,  which  for  a  time  had 
the  desired  effect ;  for,  in  her  estimation,  she  could  suffer  no 
greater  misfortune  than  to  be  exiled  from  the  camp,  where 
she  had  already  become  quite  a  potentate,  with  numerous 
satellites,  the  unfortunate  Larry  being  the  most  subservient 
of  all.  But  her  spite  rankled  and  strengthened,  neverthe- 
less. Saville  was  no  favorite  of  hers  ;  for  her  husband  had 
reported  his  significant  offer  of  his  old  breeches,  as  well  as 
his  shoes,  at  the  time  she  captured  his  quondam  man-of- 
ail-work. 

Saville  was  able,  in  part,  to  allay  the  suspicions  of  his 
brother  officers,  by  his  strenuous  assertions  that  the  Whig 
cause  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  inmates  of  the  mountain 
cabin  ;  but,  when  asked  to  give  some  account  of  them,  he 
could  say  but  little,  and  so  an  evil-boding  prejudice  re- 
mained. 

But  the  rapid  events  of  a  stirring  campaign  soon  banished 
all  thought  of  possible  dangers  ;  and  in  the  approach  of 
legions  of  British  troops,  the  exile  suspected  of  Tory  pro- 
clivities was  forgotten. 

As  the  month  of  June  passed,  the  nearer  approached  the 
time  when  all  felt  that  the  English  men-of-war  and  transports 
must  appear  upon  the  coast.  Not  a  day  dawned  but  the 
tidings  of  their  arrival  at  New  York  was  expected  by  Colonel 


15a  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

James  Clinton,  who  then  commanded  the  forts  in  the  High- 
lands ;  and  the  feverish  excitement  of  expectation  hourly 
increased  among  both  officers  and  men. 

One  lovely  evening,  about  the  last  of  June,  Saville,  after 
his  labors  upon  the  fortifications  were  over,  pulled  his  boat 
across  the  river  to  a  little  cove  near  the  cabin.  He  had 
suffered  much,  during  the  past  year,  and  was  finding  in  the 
society  of  Vera  an  increasing  power  to  obliterate  the  painful 
impressions  of  the  past.  He  felt,  at  times,  like  one  con- 
sumed with  feverish  thirst,  and  that  her  conversation,  at 
once  so  childlike  and  intelligent,  so  natural  and  yet  tinged 
with  the  supernatural,  was  like  a  cool  mountain  rill,  sweet 
and  sparkling,  as  it  issued  into  the  light  from  its  mysterious 
source  in  the  heart  of  the  hills.  He  often  wondered  at  her 
ability  to  enchain  his  thoughts,  to  awaken  questionings  in 
regard  to  matters  which  he  had  considered  settled,  and  un- 
consciously to  arouse  misgivings  concerning  his  doubt  and 
unbelief. 

Of  one  thing,  however,  he  was  certain  :  her  influence  was 
making  him  a  belter  and  truer  man,  and  bringing  a  strange 
peace  and  hopefulness  into  his  soul,  that  hitherto  had  been 
full  of  unrest,  and  was  at  times  embittered  by  impotent  re- 
sentment at  his  destiny  and  again  weighed  down  by  deep 
despondency. 

He  was  soon  on  the  crest  of  the  rocky  height  above  the 
cabin,  playing  upon  his  flute  the  air  which  had  become  the 
summons  to  trusts  that,  thus  far,  had  not  been  tainted  by 
the  thought  of  evil.  A  clear  voice  from  the  glen  below 
echoed  back  the  words, 

"  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows," 

and,  a  moment  later.  Vera  gave  him  her  hand  in  greeting. 

After  a  little  while  their  conversation  flagged.  The  sut^tle 
sympathy  between  them  had  grown  so  deep,  that  they  did 


BEACON   FIRES.  I53 

not  need  a  constant  interchange  of  words  to  enjoy  each 
other's  society  ;  and,  on  this  occasion,  the  exquisite  beauty 
and  peace  of  the  landscape,  as  they  scanned  it  from  their 
lofty  eyrie,  so  impressed  both  that  they  were  content  to  gaze 
in  silence.  Darkening  and  lengthening  shadows  from  the 
western  mountains  stretched  far  across  the  river,  whose 
glassy  surface  had  gradually  passed  from  the  sheen  of  silver 
to  a  colder,  steely  gleam,  as  it  washed  its  bold  shores  at  their 
feet ;  but  the  heads  of  "  Sugar  Loaf"  mountain,  and  other 
lofty  heights,  were  still  crowned  with  light  and  robed  in 
royal  purple.  Coming  night  would  soon  uncrown  them, 
even  as  death  brings  darkness  and  obscurity  to  those  who, 
but  a  brief  time  before,  shone  pre-eminent  in  power  and 
station. 

At  last  Saville  said, 

•'  Why  is  it.  Vera,  that  while  here  with  you,  the  real 
world,  which  is  full  of  turmoil  and  trouble,  recedes,  and  I 
seem  near  another  world  which  I  would  gladly  enter  ;  for 
even  on  its  borders  I  find  a  strange  peace  and  quiet  joy. 
The  people  I  am  thrown  with  in  the  garrison  are  coarse,  and 
their  best  idea  of  life  is  commonplace  and  material.  Our 
food  is  plain  and  even  gross,  and  yet  it  seems  wholly  to  oc- 
cupy the  thoughts  of  many.  How  you  live  I  cannot  tell, 
unless  the  fairies  feed  you.  Every  day  has  its  harassing 
rumors,  and  we  know  that  the  enemy  will  strike  us  soon  ; 
and  the  sooner  the  better,  for  the  great  question  of  Liberty 
can  be  decided  now  only  by  hard  blows.  But  you  cannot 
know  what  a  relief  it  is  to  escape  from  the  dust,  heat,  and 
din  of  labor  on  the  fortifications,  and  the  oversight  of  men 
who  seem  little  better  than  beasts  of  burden,  to  a  scene  like 
this,  and  to  have  you  hover  near  me,  my  dainty  Ariel.  Are 
you  sure  you  are  not  a  spirit  of  the  air,  an  emanation  of  this 
romantic  region  and  hour  ?  When  the  cold,  dark  days  come, 
will  not  you  and  your  rustic  bower  vanish  ?     If  I  come  next 


154  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

November,  and  give  our  musical  signal,  will  not  the  sighing 
cf  the  chilly  wind  be  my  only  answer  ?  Are  you  really  flesh 
aad  blood  ?" 

**  I  might  answer  with  Shylock,"  repliedV  era,  playfully, 
*'  *  Have  I  not  eyes  ?  Have  I  not  hands,  organs,  dimen- 
sions, senses,  affections,  passions?*  " 

"  Still,  you  differ  vastly  from  ordinary  mortals.  How  is 
it  that  when  with  you,  such  a  sense  of  peace,  rest,  and  deep 
content  steals  into  my  heart  ?' ' 

"  Another  has  said,  '  My  peace  I  give  unto  you,  not  as 
the  world  giveth  give  I  unto  you.'  It  is  that  which  yois 
feel,  I  trust." 

"  Who  said  that  ?" 

"  The  Prince  of  Peace— the  God  who  loves  us  both.  Life 
is  bringing  to  me,  as  well  as  to  yourself,  many  sad  and 
stern  realities.  I  live  as  you  do,  but  am  fed  much  as  the 
ravens  are,  not  knowing  where  to-morrow's  supply  is  to 
come  from  ;  only  sure  that  it  will  come.  You  know  well, 
Ptlr.  Saville,  that  there  is  now  nothing  sportive  and  fairy-lika 
in  my  life,  and  yet  deep  in  my  heart  abides  perfect  peace." 

Its  reflection  was  on  her  face,  as  he  gazed  upon  it  long 
and  intently. 

"  May  it  never  be  disturbed,"  he  said  fervently.  "I 
enjoy,  while  here,  but  the  pale  reflection  of  what  you  pos- 
sess.    But  it's  all  a  mystery,  like  yourself.     What's  that?" 

Far  to  the  southward  a  faint  light  illumined  the  dusk  oi 
approaching  night.  While  they  looked,  another  and  nearer 
flame  sprang  into  the  sky,  and  soon  the  highest  mountain- 
tops  all  along  the  river  were  ablaze. 

"  What  do  they  mean  ?"   asked  Vera,  in  an  awed  whisper. 

"They  are  beacon  fires,"  said  Saville  excitedly;  "the 
enemy  is  at  last  at  hand.  Good-by,  my  little  wildflower  ;  I 
must  be  at  my  post  instantly.  May  the  hot  breath  of  vrsr 
sjever  wither  your  bioom." 


BEACON  FIRES.  I55 

"  Good -by,"  said  Vera  sadly;  "but  remember,  I  shall 
be  here  in  November,  just  as  certainly  as  in  June." 

"  While  I  live  I  will  seek  for  you,"  he  called  back,  as 
he  sprang  down  the  rocks  and  x-anished  in  the  darkness. 

Vera  watched  the  ominous  glare  of  the  alarm-fires  for  a 
/ong  time,  and  then  sighed,  as  she  descended  to  her  home, 

' '  Alas  !  war  means  death  to  many,  and,  perhaps,  to  him, 
my  only  friend.     But  not  if  prayer  can  shield  him." 

She  found  her  father  watching  the  glare,  also,  in  moody 
silence.  Taking  his  arm,  she  stood  quietly  by  him.  How 
much  those  beacon  fires  might  presage  to  both  ! 

"  They  have  come  at  last,"   he  said,  with  a  deep  breath. 

"  Yes,  father,  no  doubt  the  English  ships  are  down  the 
river,  and  now  is  the  time  fOr  you  to  do  as  mother  said — 
join  Mr.  Saville,  and  take  an  open  part  in  the  struggle  for 
liberty.      It  will  be  so  much  better  and  safer. 

He  only  shook  his  head,  and  she  felt  his  arm  tremble  be- 
neath her  hand. 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  asked  hesitatingly,  "  we  could  find 
a  safer  place  than  this  } — one  further  away  ?" 

' '  No,  father  ;  none  half  so  safe  as  this.  We  cannot 
leave  this  place,  where  mother  died,"  she  answered,  so  de- 
cidedly that  he  yielded  to  her  stronger  will,  and  permitted 
himself  to  be  led  quietly  within  the  cabin  ;  but,  in  accord- 
ance with  his  old  habit,  he  sat,  a  sleepless  watcher,  through 
the  night,  in  his  dark  comer,  his  eyes  moving  restlessly  at 
the  slightest  sound  without.  Vera  tried  to  watch  with  him, 
but  her  head  soon  dropped  upon  the  chair, 

Gula,  shading  the  light  with  her  hand,  looked  at  her  calm 
face  a  moment,  and  then  went  muttering  to  her  loft,  "  She 
doesn'  t  hear  no  voices  yet 


1^6  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

LIBERTY    PROCLAIMED    AMONG    THE     HIGHLANDS. 

SEVERAL  evenings  passed  before  Saville  appeared  again, 
and   then  he  went  directly  to  the  cabin,  for  he  had 
tidings  for  both  father  and  daughter. 

"  I  wish  you  joy,  Mr.  Brown,"  he  cried,  as  they  went 
out  to  meet  him.  "  You  are  no  longer  under  British  law. 
This  is  a  free  country."  And  in  rapid  sentences  he  told 
them  of  the  formal  declaration  of  independence  on  the  part 
of  Congress,  and  of  its  joyous  and  hearty  ratification  by  the 
people,  as  far  as  they  had  been  heard  from. 

His  words  greatly  excited  both  his  listeners,  and  a  sudden 
gleam  of  exultation  appeared  upon  the  man's  haggard  face. 
Saville  saw  his  vantage,  and  added  eagerly, 

"  I  have  been  selected  to  read  this  solemn  declaration  to- 
morrow, at  evening  parade,  before  all  the  troops  ;  and  I 
have  come  to  ask  you  and  Vera  to  be  present.  I  will  put 
you  under  the  charge  of  our  surgeon,  whom  Vera  knows, 
and  will  guarantee  your  safety.  Indeed,  your  safety  largely 
depends  upon  your  coming  ;  for  if  you  are  known  to  be 
present  and  approving  upon  such  an  occasion,  it  will  disarm 
suspicion,  and  all  will  recognize  that  you  are  on  our 
side. ' ' 

"  We  will  come,"  said  Vera  decisively  ;  for  she  felt  that 
it  might  be  the  turning-point  in  their  lives. 

"  Oh,  no,  my  child  ;  I  cannot,"  cried  the  father  trem 
blingly. 


LIBERTY  PROCLAIMED  AMONG  THE  HIGHLANDS.  15/ 

"Yes.  lather;  you  can  and  will, "  said  Vera  calmly.  ''I 
shall  go,  and  you  will  not  permit  me  to  go  alone. 

Urged  by  his  strong  desire  to  verify  the  tidings  he  had  heard 
with  his  own  ears,  and  Vera's  gentle  coercion,  he  yielded. 
It  was  arranged  that  they  should  come  the  following  day  to 
a  point,  near  the  fort,  where  they  would  find  Saville,  who 
promised  to  give  them  a  position  which,  while  not  conspic- 
uous, would  enable  them  to  hear  those  pregnant  words  which 
had  created  a  new  and  independent  nation. 

As  may  well  be  imagined,  Vera's  excitement  was  scarcely 
less  than  that  of  her  father,  though  more  controlled.  She 
was,  at  last,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  world  and  its  inhabi- 
tants, concerning  which  she  had  thought  and  dreamed  so 
much.  She  was  to  be  present  on  an  occasion  of  pomp 
and  military  display,  and  the  one  she  loved  and  honored 
as  the  most  excellent  man  existing,  was  to  be  the  cen- 
tral figure.  To  her,  he  embodied  the  Declaration  which 
he  was  to  read,  and  was  a  synonym  for  liberty.  In  her 
fancy,  she  compared  him  to  the  youthful  David  of  Bible  his- 
tory, and  the  loftiest  Shakspearian  heroes  ;  and  her  heart 
overflowed  in  gratitude  to  God  that  He  had  raised  up  such 
a  friend  and  deliverer  for  her  and  her  father.  Through  his 
kind  offices,  she  already,  in  hope,  saw  her  father  restored  to 
sound  reason  and  useful  station,  and  both  gaining  a  respect- 
ed and  recognized  place  in  society.  To-morrow  would  be 
the  auspicious  day  which  would  inaugurate  the  happy 
change. 

"  Mother  was  a  true  prophetess,"  she  said  to  herself  a 
hundred  times.  "He  is  the  true  friend  whom  God  has 
raised  up  to  rescue  us." 

Temptation  was  indeed  coming  to  Vera  as  an  angel  ot 
light,  but  as  yet  no  threatening  cloud  appeared  above  the 
bright  horizon.  As  the  thundergusts  lurked  behind  her 
naUve  mountains,  to  break  at  last  as  trom  a  clear  sky,  £& 


158  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

might  the  truth  come  to  her.  But  now,  with  the  unquenched 
confidence  of  a  child,  she  exulted  over  the  vista  of  hope  and 
promise  op>ening  before  her,  and  with  an  affection  and  ad- 
miration which  was  essentially  that  of  a  sister  for  a  strong 
and  gallant  brother,  she  permitted  Saville  to  become  to  her 
the  centre  of  all  earthly  expectation. 

She  was  almost  as  sleepless  that  night  as  her  father,  and 
the  next  day,  an  hour  before  the  appointed  time  for  starting, 
was  dressed  in  all  the  simple  finery  she  possessed.  And 
simple  indeed  it  was  ;  for  neither  from  her  mother  nor  her 
foster  parent,  nature,  had  she  acquired  any  artificial  or  gaudy 
tastes. 

Moccasins  incased  her  feet.  Her  dark-blue  gown  was 
made  after  the  fashion  in  vogue  when  her  mother  was  a 
maiden  in  her  English  home,  and  was  fastened  at  her  throat 
by  a  quaint  and  ancient  brooch.  But  her  chief  ornament 
was  the  wealth  of  golden  hair  that  flowed,  unconfined,  far 
down  her  shoulders.  Upon  her  head,  as  jauntily  as  when 
Saville  first  saw  it,  sat  the  plumage  of  the  snowy  heron. 

Saville  wondered  at  her  beauty,  as  she  appeared,  glowing 
with  exercise  and  excitement,  at  the  rendezvous.  Her^ther 
also  had  seemingly  nerved  himself  up  to  the  emergency,  and 
maintained  the  stately  bearing  of  a  gentleman  of  a  former 
generation  ;  while  Vera,  to  a  very  great  degree,  had  removed 
from  his  person  and  dress  the  habitual  appearance  of  dis- 
order. 

Saville  led  them  at  once  to  his  quarters,  and  placed  before 
them  such  refreshments  as  could  be  obtained  .in  a  mountain 
garrison.  According  to  agreement,  the  bluff  but  kindly  sur- 
geon soon  appeared,  and  did  his  best  to  entertain  the  vis- 
itors. Saville  would  have  introduced  a  few  other  officers,  but 
Mr.  Brown  had  stipulated  that  he  should  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  no  other  person  than  the  surgeon.  To  his  disordered 
fancy,  danger  menaced  from  every  one  who  obtained  knowK 


LIBERTY  PROCLAIMED  AMONG  THE  HIGHLANDS.  1 59 

edge  of  him.  Saville  and  Vera  readily  acquiesced,  feeling 
that  his  habit  of  reserve  and  morbid  fear  could  only  be 
broken  gradually. 

But  Vera  was  more  than  content,  and  would  have  been 
in  a  state  of  childlike  wonder  and  delight,  had  she  been  left 
solely  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  new  and  strange  scenes  wit- 
nessed now  for  the  first  time.  But  with  Saville,  and  the 
surgeon  who  was  kind  to  her  mother,  at  her  side,  to  explain 
and  protect,  she  felt  that  her  cup  was  full  to  overflowing. 

Saville  noted  with  pleasure  her  simple  grace  and  dignity 
of  manner.  She  was  his  protegee,  and  he  had  felt  some 
anxiety  as  to  her  appearance  and  bearing,  and  also  lest  she 
should  be  painfully  embarrassed,  or  so  odd  in  dress  and 
manner  as  to  attract  unfavorable  notice.  But  her  bearing 
was  that  of  a  well-bred  but  diffident  child.  Her  modest 
deference  to  the  surgeon's  words  both  charmed  and  dis- 
armed him  of  the  prejudice  which  her  father's  life  and  repu- 
tation had  created  ;  and  her  keen  and  intelligent  interest  in 
all  she  saw,  and  the  innocent  wonder  that  often  found  ex- 
pression upon  her  mobile  features,  amply  repaid  Saville  for 
his  effort  to  secure  her  presence.  There  was,  withal,  a  trace 
of  quaint  Shakspearian  stateliness  in  her  words  and  manner, 
which,  to  one  of  his  tastes,  was  far  more  pleasing  than  the 
artificial  graces  of  the  prevailing  mode. 

As  the  hour  approached  for  evening  parade  and  the  cere- 
monies attendant  upon  so  important  an  occasion,  Saville 
conducted  them  to  a  commanding  yet  sheltered  position  be- 
neath some  overshadowing  trees,  from  which  they  could  see 
and  hear  all,  and  still  not  be  full  in  the  public  eye.  As 
Vera  noticed  this,  and  saw  how  relieved  her  father  was  that 
he  could  shrink  partially  out  of  sight,  she  said, 

'*  Do  you  read  one's  thoughts,  that  your  courtesy  is  so 
kind?" 

*'  I  should  be  dull  indeed,"  he  replied,  "  if  I  could  not 
Roe— Vni— H 


i6o  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

read  your  thoughts,  and  most  unkind  not  to  please  one  so 
easily  pleased,  Good-by,  now,  for  a  time.  I  must  go  and 
prepare  for  the  part  that  I  am  to  take." 

"  I  am  proud  that  it  is  the  chief  part,"  she  said  exult- 
antly. 

Saville's  enthusiasm  over  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
had  scarcely  known  bounds,  and  so  attracted  the  attention 
of  his  brother  officers,  that  Colonel  James  Clinton,  the  com- 
manding officer,  said  laughingly, 

"  You  shall  read  it  at  evening  parade,  for,  judging  from 
the  feeling  jou  show,  you  can  do  the  document  more  justice 
than  any  of  us." 

"  I  shall  esteem  it  the  greatest  honor  of  my  life,  if  I  may," 
responded  Saville  eagerly  ;  "  for  I  see  in  this  instrument 
the  inauguration  of  a  totally  new  condition  of  society.  I 
think  its  writer  was  inspired,  and  that  it  contains  more  than 
he  realized.  He  wrought  better  than  he  knew.  Take  the 
words,  *  all  men  are  created  equal,  and  are  endowed  with 
certain  inherent  and  inalienable  rights  ;  that  among  these 
are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness. '  Push  these 
pregnant  sentences  to  their  logical  conclusion,  and  they  level 
all  arbitrary  distinctions,  and  break  all  chains,  spiritual  and 
temporal.  They  will  make  all  men  sovereigns,  instead  of 
vassals  and  slaves  of  tyranny,  existing  on  earth  or  believed  to 
exist  somewhere  else." 

"  Hold  on,  Saville,"  cried  Clinton  ;  "you  haven't  quot- 
ed correctly.  The  document  reads,  '  endowed  by  their 
Creator  with  certain  inherent  and  inalienable  rights.'  A 
Creator  that  can  endow,  can  also  impose  restrictions." 

"  I  admit,"  Saville  had  replied,  "  that  in  the  letter  of  its 
phraseolog)',  the  instrument  accords  with  the  waning  super- 
stitions of  the  times  ;  but,  as  I  said,  the  writer  wrought  bet- 
ter than  he  knew,  and  placed  there  the  germs  of  a  golden 
age,  wherein  man   will  be  supreme,  reason   holding  the 


LIBERTY  PROCLAIMED  AMONG  THE  HIGHLANDS.  l6l 

sceptre.  Suppose  we  break  the  bonds  of  King  George,  hov 
can  we  possess  liberty  and  pursue  happiness,  if  we  are  tram- 
meled on  every  side  by  what  some  ancient  bigots  imagined 
was  the  will  of  an  obscure  Hebrew  Divinity  ?  If  we  must 
be  governed  by  the  myths  of  remote  antiquity,  in  the  name 
of  reason,  let  us  go  to  Greece  ;  for  there,  at  least,  we  shall 
find  some  breadth  and  beauty." 

'*  If  I  saw  in  this  document  what  you  foreshadow,  I'd 
bum  it  instead  of  having  it  read,"  said  Clinton,  with  an 
oath.  "  I  see  in  it  only  independence  of  King  George,  and 
allegiance  to  the  God  of  my  fathers." 

"The  acorn  grows  slowly,"  Saville  answered;  "but 
when  it  grows,  the  shell  decays  and  drops  away." 

"Very  well,"  said  Clinton;  "you  shall  read  it,  and 
every  man  can  interpret  it  for  himself." 

And  so  it  had  been  arranged.  Apart  from  Saville' s  en- 
thusiasm, the  selection  would  prove  good  in  other  respects, 
for  he  had  a  fine  presence,  and  a  strong,  sonorous  voice. 

As  the  sun  sank  behind  the  western  highlands,  the  tap  of 
the  drum  summoned  the  garrison  to  their  respective  posi- 
tions, and  filled  all  minds  with  eager  expectancy.  Vera 
heard  the  confused  and  hurrying  tramp  of  feet,  and  rapid 
commands  from  officers  which,  though  unintelligible  to  her, 
soon  crystallized  the  human  atoms  into  compact  masses. 
In  every  part  of  the  fort  and  island  that  was  visible,  bodies 
of  men  appeared  with  bayonets  gleaming  above  their  heads. 
Then,  with  a  precision  and  order  which  only  military  disci- 
pline can  produce,  each  company  was  put  in  motion  by  a 
single  word,  as  if  all  were  swayed  by  one  will.  The  rj-th- 
mical  tread  of  many  feet  echoed  and  re-echoed  on  every 
side,  and  soon  the  open,  level  space  before  her  began  to  fill 
with  angular  masses  of  men.  At  first,  they  seemed  to  her 
untaught  eyes  like  human  blocks  placed  here  and  there  by 
chance  ;  but,  as  company  and  battalion  came  marching  for» 


1 62  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

ward  to  the  music  of  fife  and  drum  till  they  seemed  to  form 
an  innumerable  host,  she  saw  the  angular  human  masses 
take,  as  it  were  by  magic,  the  outline  of  three  sides  of  a  hol- 
low square.  The  martial  sounds  caused  every  nerve  to 
tingle,  and  looking  at  her  father,  she  saw,  with  a  thrill  of 
hope,  that  he  was  losing  his  shrinking  manner,  and  that  his 
eyes  were  kindling  with  a  grand  excitement  akin  to  her  own. 

In  very  brief  time  the  lines  were  dressed,  and  the  men 
standing  like  serried  ranks  of  statues.  A  word  of  command 
rang  out,  which  was  followed  by  a  subdued  crash,  as  every 
firelock  came  simultaneously  to  the  ground,  and  the  ranks 
became  statuesque  in  another  attitude.  She  also  saw  that 
in  the  mean  time  every  cannon  had  been  manned  along  the 
extensive  line  of  breastworks.  A  little  in  the  rear  of  the 
nearest  stood  a  person  whose  strange  costume  did  not  pre- 
vent Vera  from  recognizing  as  the  young  Irish  girl  whom  she 
had  occasionally  met  in  her  mountain  excursions.  It  was 
no  other  than  the  redoubtable  Molly  O'Flarharty,  dressed  in 
a  blue  petticoat,  the  scarlet  coat  of  an  artilleryman,  and  a 
cocked  hat  worn  rakishly  on  one  side.  She  also  saw,  from 
Molly's  steady  gaze,  that  she  knew  both  herself  and  her 
father  ;  but,  while  the  woman's  bold  stare  gave  her  for  a 
moment  an  uncomfortable  impression,  she  soon  forgot  her 
existence  in  the  interesting  scenes  in  which  she  was  a  par- 
ticipant. 

When  all  were  in  position,  and  silence  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  preceding  din  and  tramp  of  feet,  Colonel  Clin- 
ton, with  his  staff  officers,  issued  from  the  shadow  of  some 
large  tents,  and  grouped  themselves  on  the  fourth  and  open 
side  of  the  square,  the  commander  being  a  little  in  advance 
of  the  others.  To  Vera,  as  they  stood  there  in  as  brilliant 
uniforms  as  the 'times  and  their  meagre  purses  permitted, 
they  seemed  heroes  of  the  first  magnitude. 

But  when  Saville's  tall  form  appeared,  and  he  advanced 


LIBER  T  Y PROCLAIMED  AMONG  THE  HIGHLA  NDS.  1 63 

and  saluted  Colonel  Clinton  with  the  erectness  and  steadi- 
ness of  a  trained  soldier,  combined  with  the  ease  and  grace 
of  one  who  had  seen  court  life  abroad,  tears  of  exultant 
pride  suffused  her  eyes,  and  she  murmured,  ' '  He  towers 
above  them  all." 

"  See  what  a  grace  is  seated  on  this  brow  ; 
Hyperion's  curls  ;  the  front  of  Jove  himself  ; 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command  ; 
A  combination,  and  a  form,  indeed. 
Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal. 
And  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man." 

A  deep  hush  fell  upon  the  garrison,  broken  only  by  the 
rustle  of  the  parchment  as  it  was  unrolled.  Even  the  most 
stolid  of  the  soldiery  could  be  seen  craning  their  necks  that 
they  might  hear  more  distinctly  the  words  that  were  so 
fraught  with  destiny  to  them  and  their  children.  But  there 
was  no  need  of  such  effort ;  forSaville's  powerful  voice,  like 
a  trumpet,  sent  every  syllable  even  to  the  artiller5'men  stand- 
ing at  the  distant  guns. 

When  he  came  to  the  words,  "  We  hold  these  truths  to 
be  self-evident  :  that  all  men  are  created  equal, ' '  he  gave  to 
them  such  emphasis  and  meaning,  that  they  thrilled  all  pres- 
ent, and  touched  the  deep  chord  of  human  brotherhood  in 
every  heart.  From  the  common  soldiery,  who  felt  their 
humble  station,  but  believed  that  this  truth  made  them  peers 
of  all  mankind,  there  went  up  an  irrepressible  shout,  whose 
echoes  were  long  in  dying  away.  Saville  smiled,  as  he 
thought,  "  Did  I  not  say  that  the  germ  of  perfect  liberty  and 
equality  is  in  these  words  ?  ay,  and  the  instinct  of  the  masses 
will  discover  it,  in  spite  of  their  rulers.  Even  the  mere  an- 
nouncement causes  these  poor  fellows  to  break  the  iron 
bands  of  military  restraint." 

More  than  once  the  reader  was  interrupted  by  outbursts 
of  applause,  or  by  groans  and  hisses  given  with  emphasis  by 


l64  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

his  recent  subjects  for  King  George,  who,  in  this  memorable 
document,  was  to  hear  the  unvarnished  truth  in  a  form  that 
would  make  his  ears  tingle. 

It  was  indeed  a  remarkable  occasion  and  scene.  In  the 
words  themselves,  in  the  feelings  of  those  who  then  for  the 
first  time  heard  them,  and  especially  in  view  of  the  results, 
the  element  of  sublimity  was  pre-eminent.  It  was  befitting 
that  the  surroundings  should  be  sublime  ;  that  there  should 
rise  on  every  side  solemn  mountains,  some  in  shadow,  some 
crowned  with  light  and  glory,  suggestive  of  the  checkered 
fortunes  of  those  who  must  fight  long  years  for  the  libert) 
they  were  now  claiming.  But  when  a  strong  current  o! 
popular  feeling  and  opinion  sets  steadily  in  one  direction,  it 
will  break  through  all  barriers,  and  overcome  all  obstacles, 
even  as  the  broad  river  at  their  feet  had  cleft  its  way  through 
miles  of  granite  hills. 

As  the  last  words  fell  from  the  reader's  lips— "  And  for  the 
support  of  this  declaration  we  mutually  pledge  to  each  other 
our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and  our  sacred  honor," — a  frenzy  of 
enthusiasm  seized  upon  all.  The  lines  were  partially  broken, 
for  the  citizen  soldiery  were  too  recently  from  their  democratic 
homes  to  be  held  in  check,  had  restraint  been  attempted. 
The  three-cornered  continental  hats  were  whirled  high  in 
air,  and  the  prolonged  and  deafening  shouts  were  but  par- 
tially drowned  by  the  cannon  that,  from  every  embrasure, 
thundered  repeated  salvos.  The  guns  of  Forts  Clinton  and 
Montgomery  were  soon  answering  like  mighty  echoes. 

Though  the  reader  had  acquitted  himself  admirably,  he 
was  content  to  be  forgotten  in  the  wild  excitement  over  what 
he  had  read,  and  escaped  almost  unnoticed  to  Vera's  side. 
As  he  saw  the  deep  intensity  of  feeling  expressed  in  her  dark 
blue  eyes  and  earnest  face,  the  thought  occurred  to  him, 
"  She  is  not  a  child  ;  she  is  capable  of  becoming,  if  she  is 
not  already,  a  heroic  woman. 


LIBERTY  PROCLAIMED  AMONG  THE  HIGHLANDS.  165 

The  father,  also,  was  so  changed  that  he  scarcely  knew 
him.  He  looked,  not  only  like  one  who  could  fight  for  lib- 
erty, but  lead  others  in  the  conflict.  Not  from  him,  how- 
ever, but  from  Vera,  came  the  request  that  they  might  now 
depart 

"  I  am  overpowered,"  she  said  ;  "  perhaps  if  I  had  had 
former  glimpses  of  the  strange  and  unknown  world,  I  would 
not  feel  so.  But  I  am  now  overwhelmed,  as  I  imagine  one 
of  the  old  prophets  must  have  been  just  after  he  had  seen  a 
vision." 

"  The  excitement  has  been  too  much  for  you,"  said  Sa- 
ville  gently. 

'  *  Yes,  for  the  moment ;  but  I  have  seen  that  which  I  can 
think  over  and  dream  about  for  months.  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  you  for  this  wonderful  experience  ;  but  let  us  go  now, 
and  when  you  come  again  I  shall  have  many  questions  to 
ask.  Mother  was  right — you  are  the  friend  that  she  had  a 
presentiment  you  would  become.  Oh,  that  she  were  with 
us  to-day  !" 

"  Your  mother  seems  ever  present  to  your  mind,"  said 
Saville,  in  a  low  tone,  as  they  walked  to  the  boat. 

"Dear  mother!"  sighed  Vera,  in  a  tone  that  trembled 
with  tenderness  ;  ' '  perhaps  she  is  nearer  to  me  than  you, 
upon  whose  arm  I  lean." 

It  caused  Saville  a  sudden  and  sharp  pang  to  remember, 
as  he  believed,  that  her  mother  had  vanished  into  nothing- 
ness, and  had  no  longer  any  existence. 

On  parting  at  the  landing,  Saville  took  Vera's  hand  in 
both  his,  and  said, 

"  I  have  learned  to  respect  you  very  much  to-day,  my  lit- 
tle friend.  I  think  you  are  ceasing  to  be  a  child,  and  are 
becoming  a  woman. ' ' 

"  I  would  rather  be  a  child  as  long  as  I  can,"  said  Vera 
humbly,  "for  I  have  so  much  to  learn." 


I66  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

Her  father  wrung  the  young  man's  hand,  and  said, 

"  I  shall  be  with  you  in  this  struggle  actively,  if  not 
openly. " 

**  Openly,  my  friend,  openly,  and  all  will  be  well,"  cried 
Saville,  as  they  pushed  from  the  shore. 

If  he  had  taken  that  advice,  it  might  have  saved  him  and 
his  daughter  years  of  suffering. 


ECHOES  ALONG   THE  HUDSON*  l6| 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

ECHOES  ALONG  THE  HUDSON. 

EARLY  in  the  season — indeed,  as  soon  as  it  became 
probable  that  his  native  city,  New  York,  would  be 
the  next  point  of  attack — Saville  had  commenced  to  chafe 
at  the  orders  that  kept  him  so  far  from  the  prospective  scene 
of  action,  and  made  him  little  more  than  an  overseer  of  the 
soldier  laborers,  working  upon  fortifications.  When,  at 
last,  the  beacon  fires  and  subsequent  intelligence  announced 
that  the  enemy  were  in  the  harbor,  and  the  city  was  liable 
to  assault  at  any  moment,  he  could  scarcely  restrain  his  im- 
patience, and  at  once  made  application  to  be  transferred  to 
the  main  army.  He  was  now  daily  hoping  to  receive  the 
orders  he  desired.  In  the  uncertainty,  he  had  decided  to 
say  nothing  to  Vera,  since,  if  the  request  were  denied,  she 
would  be  saved  from  the  pain  of  fearing  his  departure  ;  and, 
should  it  be  granted,  she  would  be  preserved  from  days  of 
anxious  anticipation. 

But  in  the  mean  time  events  occurred  which  intensified  his 
desire  to  visit  the  city,  and  he  began  to  feel  that  the  duty  he 
owed  his  mother  was  conflicting  most  painfully  with  that  of 
a  soldier.  If  he  could  only  remove  her  to  a  place  of  safety, 
he  would  even  be  content  to  return  to  the  mountain  fort 
where  there  was  no  immediate  prospect  of  active  service. 
This  anxiety  kept  him  on  the  alert  for  every  rumor  from  the 
city,  and  in  that  feverish  and  portentous  time  there  were 
rumors  innumerable. 


l68  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

But  on  the  13th  of  July,  while  directing  a  working  party 
in  the  construction  of  a  bastion,  he  noticed  two  sloops  com- 
ing up  the  river  at  an  unusual  speed.  The  wind  was  blow- 
ing very  strongly  from  the  southeast,  and  yet  they  carried  so 
much  sail  as  to  involve  danger,  and  at  times  would  careen 
over  to  the  water's  edge.  Saville  was  something  of  a  sailor, 
and  he  knew  that  none  of  the  easy-going  skippers  of  the 
river  craft  would  carry  all  the  canvas  they  could  raise,  in 
such  a  gale,  unless  there  was  urgent  reason. 

Scanning  them  through  his  glass,  he  was  soon  convinced 
that  there  was  reason,  and  that  events  of  great  importance 
had  occurred  below.  He  was  confirmed  in  this  surmise 
when  the  vessels,  instead  of  standing  on  past  the  fort,  ap- 
proached the  shore,  and  came  up  before  the  wind.  Even 
while  casting  anchor  two  boats  shoved  off,  and  a  few  mo- 
ments later  the  captains  of  the  sloops  were  clambering  up  the 
rocky  bank  and  asking  for  an  audience  with  Colonel  Clin- 
ton. Saville  led  them  at  once  to  the  commandant's  tent, 
and  the  bluff  skippers,  almost  in  a  breath,  said  : 

"  Colonel  Clinton,  look  well  to  your  guns.  The  British- 
ers attacked  the  city  yesterday  afternoon,  and  some  of  their 
largest  ships  were  a-standin'  straight  up  the  river  when 
night  closed  in.   If  they  keep  on  they'll  be  here  afore  long." 

Then  followed  several  hurried  questions  and  answers. 
Clinton  Nvas  a  prompt  man  and  a  brave  soldier,  and  though 
his  garrison  and  works  were  ill  able  to  cope  with  English 
ships  of  the  line,  he  had  no  other  thought  save  that  of  resist- 
ance to  the  last. 

"Make  all  sail,"  he  said  to  the  captains,  "  for  New 
Windsor,  where  you  will  find  my  brother,  the  general.  Teli 
him  what  you  have  told  me.  Ask  him  to  order  out  the 
militia  at  once,  and  reinforce  me  at  the  quickest  possible 
moment. 

The  captains  needed  no  urging,  and  scrambled  aboard 


ECHOES  ALONG   THE  HUDSON.  169 

tfieir  vessels,  which  were  soon  lying  upon  their  sides  again, 
in  imminent  danger,  as  every  inch  of  canvas  swelled  with 
the  freshening  gale.  But,  even  in  advance  of  their  swift 
progress,  and  in  accordance  with  a  preconcerted  signal. 
Colonel  Clinton  sent  the  echoes  of  a  heavy  gun  booming  up 
the  river,  warning  his  brother,  the  warrior-governor,  that  the 
guardians  of  the  Highlands  must  bestir  themselves  at  once. 

"  I  am  sorrj',  Saville,"  he  said  to  the  anxious-visaged 
young  ofi&cer  ;  ' '  but  there  is  no  use  in  your  thinking  of  get- 
ting away  now.  The  garrison  is  ridiculously  weak  as  it  is. 
Out  with  every  man  who  can  handle  a  pick  or  spade.  We 
must  fignt  with  these  while  the  red-coats  give  us  a  chance." 
And,  having  put  everybody  in  motion  at  Fort  Constitution, 
he  hastened  down  to  Forts  Montgomery  and  Clinton,  to 
push  forward  the  work  there  also,  and  arrange  for  signals, 
should  the  enemy' s  ships  appear, 

Saville,  as  a  good  soldier  often  must  do,  ignored  all  per- 
sonal interests  and  affections,  and,  to  his  utmost,  seconded 
the  endeavors  of  his  commander.  In  order  to  animate  the 
men,  he  even  laid  hold  of  the  tools  himself,  in  emergencies 
that  required  unusual  effort ;  and  the  ramparts  seemed  vis- 
ibly to  grow  under  the  eager  labors  of  oflBcers  and  mea 

Late  in  the  afternoon.  General  George  Clinton's  barge, 
filled  with  men,  was  descried  coming  down  the  river,  and 
the  belligerent  governor  was  soon  concerting  measures  of  de- 
fense with  his  brother,  who,  in  the  mean  time,  had  returned. 
Having  informed  Colonel  Clinton  of  the  important  steps  he 
had  taken,  and  of  the  various  regiments  that  would  speedily 
be  on  the  march  to  reinforce  the  posts,  he  said, 

"  I  shall  make  my  headquarters  at  Fort  Montgomery,  as 
that  is  nearest  the  enemy.  I  want  to  take  down  with  me 
one  or  two  engineer  ofiBcers,  to  help  push  forward  the  lines." 

"  Yonder  is  a  man  who  is  not  afraid  of  work,"  said  the 
colonel ;  and  Saville  was  instructed  to  accompany  the  gov- 


I70  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

ernor  at  once,  and  told  that  his  baggage  would  be  sent  after 
him. 

The  day  passed,  and  brought  no  enemy  ;  but  the  feverish 
excitement  and  expectancy  were  not  permitted  to  die  out ; 
for,  as  soon  as  darkness  closed,  the  hill-tops  far  to  the  south 
began  to  blaze,  and  the  Dunderberg,  Bear  Mountain,  Sugar 
Loaf,  Cro'  Nest,  and  Butter  Hill  speedily  assumed  their 
crowns  of  flame. 

From  the  rocky  height  above  the  cabin,  Vera  and  her 
father  watched  the  ominous  glare,  for  a  long  time,  with  deep 
anxiety.  However  little  she  might  know  of  its  cause,  one 
thing  was  certain — it  portended  danger  to  her  only  friend. 

On  her  was  imposed  already  the  most  painful  experience 
of  war — woman's  helpless  waiting  and  watching  for  those 
they  love. 

Not  many  hours  later,  swift  riders  brought  tidings  to  the 
fort  that  the  admiral,  Lord  Howe,  had  come  to  co-operatg 
with  General  Howe,  his  brother,  and  that  the  active  cam- 
paign would  no  doubt  commence  at  once. 

On  the  following  day  came  a  letter  from  Washington,  urg- 
ing General  Clinton  to  do  what  had  already  been  accom- 
plished, for  the  energetic  governor  had  stirred  up  the  whole 
country.  In  the  evening  the  notes  of  the  drum  and  fife 
were  heard  along  the  river  road,  and  three  hundred  of  the 
hardy  Ulster  County  militia  marched  into  the  fort. 

During  the  night,  Vera  saw  many  lights  on  the  mountain- 
side, to  the  west ;  they  were  the  camp  fires  of  five  hundred 
men,  who  arrived  in  the  fort  early  the  next  morning,  and, 
after  a  brief  respite,  for  rest  and  refreshment,  all  were  at  work 
upon  the  fortifications,  every  man  acting,  in  the  grand  ex- 
citement of  the  moment,  as  if  all  depended  on  himself. 

For  two  or  three  days  Saville's  labors  were  incessant,  and 
he  had  scarcely  time  to  obtain  necessary  rest.  But,  as  mat- 
ters quieted  down  somewhat,  and  the  English  ships  remained 


ECHOES  ALONG   THE  HUDSON,  1 71 

quietly  at  anchor  in  Haverstraw  Bay,  he  found  an  oppor- 
tunity to  slip  across  the  river,  on  a  visit  to  the  mountain 
cabin.  Vera  was  overjoyed  to  see  him  again  ;  for,  from 
her  eyries,  even  her  unpracticed  eyes  had  descried  prepara- 
tions for  immediate  conflict  :  while  her  father  was  tremblingly 
eager  to  obtain  the  latest  tidings. 

"  I  am  out  with  my  rifle,"  he  said,  "  on  the  southern 
hills,  as  long  as  I  can  see  ;  and  you  have  one  vigilant  scout 
in  your  service,  if  he  is  unknown." 

**  Let  me  report  your  services  to  the  general,"  said  Sa- 
ville  ;  "  it  will  be  so  much  better  for  you  both,  if  your  po- 
sition is  known." 

"  Not  yet,  not  just  yet,"  said  the  man  nervously.  "  I 
am  not  equal  to  it  yet :  you  must  give  me  time." 

And  so  the  fatal  delay  to  take  a  recognized  part  in  the 
war  continued. 

Saville's  visit  was  necessarily  brief,  for  he  could  not  long 
be  absent  from  his  post     In  parting,  he  said, 

**  Good-by,  once  more,  my  little  sister ;  I  will  see  you 
again  soon  if  I  can,  but  in  these  times  we  do  not  know  what 
an  hour  will  bring  forth.  If  we  should  not  meet  in  a  long 
while,  you  must  not  grieve  too  much." 

*'  I  should  not  sorrow,"  said  Vera  tearfully,  "  as  others 
who  have  no  hope  ;  for  I  believe  in  another  world,  and  a 
better  life  than  this,  where  we  shall  not  be  disturbed  by  these 
rade  alarms  ;  but  grieve  I  would — and  how  deeply,  you  caa 
never  know.  Am  I  so  rich  in  friends  that  I  need  not 
grieve?" 

••  How  will  it  be  when  you  come  to  have  many.?"  he 
asked,  half  playfully. 

Looking  full  into  his  eyes,  without  the  faintest  blush 
tinging  her  pale  cheeks,  she  said  earnestly, 

*'  If  that  time  ever  comes,  you  will  still  be  first" 

They  accompanied  him  to  his  boat,  for  every  mom^it 


I7»  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

with  him  was  precious.  As  he  pushed  away  the  father 
said, 

"  I  shall  be  watching  on  the  Dunderberg  to-morrow." 

The  presence  of  English  ships  so  high  up  in  the  waters  of 
the  Hudson,  created  intense  excitement  along  its  shores, 
among  both  Whigs  and  Tories  ;  nor  was  the  general  ferment 
diminished  by  the  fact  that  the  enemy's  boats  were  out 
daily,  taking  soundings  far  up  toward  the  Highlands. 
Everything  indicated  that  they  were  preparing  to  take  pos- 
session of  the  river. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  Saville's  visit,  sig- 
nals were  seen  along  the  mountain-sides,  which  indicated 
that  the  enemy  were  approaching.  The  drums  beat  to 
arms,  and  all  were  ordered  to  their  posts.  The  guns  were 
manned,  and  the  matches  ready  for  lighting. 

Before  very  long,  one  of  the  tenders  of  the  British  ships 
was  seen  beating  up  against  a  stiff  northern  breeze,  which 
would  enable  her  to  retire  rapidly  in  case  of  danger.  But 
the  occupants  of- the  fort  supposed  that  the  men-of-war  were 
following,  and  prepared  for  the  worst.  Larry,  whose  com- 
pany had  been  again  ordered  down  to  Fort  Montgomery, 
was  stationed  near  a  long  thirty-two  pounder  which  had  the 
best  range  of  the  river,  and  was  not  a  little  nervous,  now 
that  his  amorous  enlistment  had  brought  him  face  to  face 
with  something  more  than  garrison  duty  ;  but  his  wife, 
Molly,  aflame  with  excitement,  hovered  near  him,  voluble 
now  with  gibes  and  taunts,  and  again  with  words  of  cheer. 
The  element  of  fear  seemed  totally  lacking  in  her  composi- 
tion, and  in  this  respect  her  influence  was  good  over  the  raw 
recruits,  who  dreaded  to  ''show  the  white  feather,"  as  it 
was  termed,  where  a  woman  was  undaunted.  Thus  she  be- 
came a  privileged  character,  and  was  tolerated,  as  useful 
camp-followers  often  are.  Many  an  awkward  fellow,  though 
badly  frightened,  would  rather  march  to  a  cannon's  mouth 


ECHOES  ALONG  THE  HUDSON.  1 73 

than  receive  a  scornful  glance  from  Molly's  black  eyes  ;  and 
if  she  gave  a  man  an  opprobrious  nickname,  it  stuck  to  him 
like  a  burr.  Colonel  Clinton  would  often  laugh,  as  he 
said, 

"  Molly  makes  soldiers  out  of  the  militia  faster  than  the 
drill  oflficers." 

But  Larry  had  become  proof  against  all  her  sarcasms.  He 
had  philosophically  accepted  his  matrimonial  fate,  and  only 
shrugged  his  shoulders  at  her  keenest  thrusts. 

But  that  English  vessel  which  was  beating  slowly  up 
against  the  wind,  and  the  others  that  he  believed  to  be  fol- 
lowing, might  give  him  something  harder  to  digest  thatt 
words,  and  he  heartily  wished  himself  back  in  the  "  Ould 
Counthry,"  even  though  there  was  "  not  a  praty  in  the 
bin."  But  he  had  nerve  enough  to  go  through  with  his 
duties,  and  that  was  all  that  was  required  of  him. 

At  last  it  was  thought  that  the  vessel  was  in  range,  and 
the  governor  himself,  as  well  as  the  officer  in  command  of 
the  artillery,  ran  his  eye  along  the  gun. 

*'Firer'  he  cried. 

Every  eye  was  strained,  and  happy  were  they  who  had 
glasses.  A  shout  of  exultation  went  up,  as  the  ball  was  seen 
to  plow  into  the  tender's  quarter,  and  applause  was  again 
and  again  repeated  as  she  quickly  went  about  and  scudded 
down  the  river  before  the  wind.  The  echoes  had  scarcely 
died  away,  before  Larry  breathed  freer  in  the  hope  that  the 
attack  would  not  be  made,  and  that  he  should  "  live  to  fight 
another  day." 

Saville  asked  and  obtained  permission  to  follow  the  tender 
in  his  sail -boat,  and  observe  her  movements,  and  was  soon 
skimming  along  before  the  breeze  at  a  rate  that  would  make 
it  necessary  to  drop  his  sail,  unless  he  wished  to  enjoy  the 
hospitality  of  a  British  prison-ship.  As  it  was,  he  ap- 
proached so  near  that  a  brass  howitzer  on  the  tender  was 


174  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

brought  to  bear  upon  him,  and  the  ball  passed  over  his 
head,  striking  the  water  a  little  to  the  leeward.  He  con- 
cluded to  run  his  boat  into  a  sheltering  cove,  until  the  ten- 
der sailed  out  of  range  ;  but  in  doing  so,  had  narrow  escapes 
from  two  more  shots.  He  did  not  know  that  the  self- 
appointed  scout  was  watching  all  from  the  sides  of  the  Dun- 
derberg,  and  that  Vera  would  grow  pale  as  she  heard  of  his 
peril. 

When  the  tender  had  receded  sufficiently,  he  reefed  his 
sail  and  followed  more  cautiously,  contenting  himself  with 
the  use  of  his  glass.  He  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  the 
English  vessel  suddenly  rounded  to,  and  cast  anchor.  A 
boat  was  lowered,  and  Saville  first  thought  that  they  intend- 
ed giving  him  a  chase,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  be  cap- 
tured, since  he  would  have  to  beat  up  against  the  breeze. 
But,  confident  of  the  sailing  abilities  of  his  little  craft,  he 
determined  to  let  them  come  within  range  of  his  rifle  before 
going  about. 

But  the  boat,  on  the  contrary,  was  pulled  steadily  toward 
shore ;  and  soon  a  farm-house,  at  the  base  of  the  moun- 
tain, was  in  flames,  while  the  cries  of  its  occupants  came  to 
him  faintly  against  the  gale. 

"  Do  they  call  that  war  ?"  muttered  Saville  indignantly. 
**  I  must  have  a  shot  at  those  base  marauders."  And  he 
ran  his  boat  in  shore,  behind  a  projecting  rock,  and  unship- 
ped the  mast,  so  that  nothing  could  be  seen.  Then,  seizing 
his  rifle,  he  sprang  up  the  mountain-side,  and  made  the  best 
speed  he  could,  over  the  rocks,  through  the  copse-wood, 
toward  the  burning  dwelling. 

The  work  of  destruction  was  complete,  and  the  incen- 
diaries had  already  embarked  before  he  came  within  range. 
He  feared  they  would  be  out  of  reach  before  he  could  get  a 
shot.  But  the  boat  had  proceeded  from  the  shore  but  a  lit- 
tle distance,  when  a  sharp  report  rang  out  from  the  sides  of 


ECHOES  ALONG    THE  HUDSON.  1 75 

the  Dunderberg,  and  the  stroke  oarsman  fell  over  backward. 
This  caused  some  confusion  and  delay,  and  Saville  gained 
on  the  boat  rapidly.  But,  after  a  moment  or  two,  the  oars 
struck  the  water  more  vigorously  than  ever,  and  Saville  was 
about  to  fire,  and  do  the  best  he  could,  when  a  second  well- 
aimed  shot  disabled  the  oarsman  who  had  been  substituted, 
and  again  delayed  progress  somewhat 

He  now  sprang  down  the  rocks  toward  the  water,  and 
whipping  out  the  glass  that  was  slung  over  his  shoulder,  en- 
deavored to  distinguish,  if  possible,  the  form  of  the  officer  in 
command,  feeling  that  he,  more  than  any  of  the  rest,  de- 
served punishment  Though  this  man,  with  the  cowardice 
in  keeping  with  his  deed  of  rapine,  sought  to  hide  himseif 
among  the  crew,  Saville' s  glass  revealed  his  insignia  of  rank. 
Leaning  his  rifle  over  a  rock,  he  took  deliberate  aim,  and 
fired  ;  then,  taking  up  his  glass,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  the  craven  spring  up,  and  fall  overboard,  while  h^ 
cry  of  pain  came  distinctly  across  the  water.  He  was  im- 
mediately pulled  on  bc^rd,  but  whether  dead  or  alive,  Sa- 
ville could  not  tell,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  more  the  boat 
passed  out  of  range.  The  few  random  shots  that  had  been 
fired  by  the  marines  pattered  harmlessly  against  the  rocks  ; 
for  the  two  fatal  marksmen  were  well  concealed. 

Saville  now  remembered  that  Mr.  Brown  had  said  that  he 
would  be  watching  on  the  Dunderberg  that  day,  and  he  at 
once  surmised  that  it  was  he  who  had  fired  the  first  two  shots. 
In  the  hope  of  seeing  him  and  taking  him  back  in  his  boat, 
he  sent  his  powerful  voice  far  up  the  mountain, 

"  A  friend — Saville." 

"I  believe  you  are,  Mr.  Saville,"  said  a  quiet  voice  at 
his  side  ;  and  to  his  surprise,  on  looking  around,  he  saw  the 
object  of  his  thoughts  standing  before  him. 

"  How,  in  the  name  of  the  impossible,  did  you  get  here 
wthout  my  seeing  you  ?" 


17^  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  I  told  you  that  I  could  be  something  of  a  scout,  and 
wished  to  prove  it. ' ' 

"  You  can  be  invaluable  if  you  will,"  said  Saville,  shak- 
ing his  hand  heartily.  "  Those  were  splendid  shots  you 
made." 

"  Yours  was  a  better  one,  and  at  a  longer  distance.  I 
am  glad  you  hit  that  miscreant  in  command.  I  would  have 
sighted  him,  but  I  saw  you  coming,  and  wished  to  delay  the 
boat  till  you  got  within  range.  But  it  would  have  been  an 
infernal  shame  to  have  let  that  fellow  escape,  for  he  treated 
the  inmates  of  the  farm-house  brutally.  Good  God  !  the 
thought  of  such  a  wretch  coming  to  my  cabin  in  my  ab- 
sence !" 

"  Mr.  Brown,  you  owe  it  to  your  lovely  daughter  to  place 
her  in  some  position  of  safety  in  these  troublous  times." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  muttered  the  father,  with  con- 
tracting brows. 

"Let  us  find  an  asylum  for  her  and  old  Gula  at  once, 
and  then  do  you  openly  join  the  army.  I  will  look  after 
your  interests." 

"  I  believe  I  will,"  said  the  exile  hesitatingly  ;  and  he 
suffered  Saville  to  lead  him  to  his  boat 

If  they  had  been  near  the  fort  all  might  have  been  well, 
and  the  man  enrolled  in  the  Continental  service.  But,  as 
he  sat  quietly  in  the  boat,  while  it  tacked  slowly  up  the  river 
against  the  wind,  his  blood  had  time  to  cool.  Reaction 
from  the  fatigue  and  excitement  of  the  day  set  in.  One  of 
the  old  waves  of  fear  and  despondency  began  to  surge  over 
his  unstable  mind,  and  Saville  heard  him  mutter, 

"  My  God  !  I  have  shot  two  English  soldiers.  If  ever 
apprehended,  my  fate  is  made  doubly  certain. " 

At  last  he  said  piteously,  ' '  Put  me  ashore  anywhere  ;  I 
can  go  no  further." 

Saville  reminded  him  of  his  promise,  and  pleaded  with 


ECHOES  ALONG    THE   HUDSON.  ill 

him  to  keep  it  for  Vera' s  sake,  but  soon  saw  that  it  was  in 
vain. 

"Put  me  ashore,"  was  the  only  response,  and  uttered 
in  tones  that  were  almost  savage.  Then  he  added,  half 
apologetically,  "  I  am  not  myself  now,  and  all  I  can  do  is 
to  cower  and  hide.     I  will  see  you  again  soon." 

Saville  reluctantly  acquiesced. 

"  Say  not  a  word  about  me  till  you  have  my  consent," 
said  his  trembling  companion  ;  and  he  dashed  into  the 
thickest  copse-wood,  as  if  his  only  thought  were  concealmeat, 

Aias  for  Vera  1 


178  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 


CHAPTER   XV. 
saville's  night  reconnoissance. 

SAVILLE  proposed,  on  the  following  day,  to  visit  the 
cabin,  in  the  hope  of  finding  its  owner  in  a  better 
mood.  He  was  more  and  more  convinced  of  the  wrong  of 
leaving  Vera  so  exposed,  and  with  no  better  protector  than 
one  who,  at  times,  was  ready  to  fly  from  his  own  shadow. 
He  saw  that  her  father's  mind  was  more  shattered  than  he 
had  supposed,  that  he  could  not  be  depended  on  even  from 
hour  to  hour,  and  was  fast  coming  to  the  conclusion  to  act 
independently  of  his  will,  if  possible. 

But  early  in  the  day  came  the  startling  tidings  that  the 
British  men-of-war — the  Phosnix,  carrying  forty  guns,  and 
the  Rose,  twenty,  were  standing  steadily  up  the  river. 

Again  there  was  preparation  for  immediate  conflict,  but 
the  vessels  came  to  anchor  within  six  miles  of  the  fort,  and 
there  remained  quietly. 

With  the  enemy,  however,  in  such  close  proximity,  no 
one  could  leave  his  post  that  night  or  the  next  day. 

Governor  Clinton  was  greatly  alarmed,  and  with  good 
reason.  The  river  was  deep,  and,  with  a  fair  wind,  the  ships 
could  speedily  pass  his  guns,  unless  disabled  ;  and,  once 
above  the  Highlands,  a  rich  and  defenseless  country  was 
open  to  ravage.  He  feared  that  they  might  take  advantage 
of  some  dark  night,  and  slip  by  him  in  the  deep  shadows  of 
the  mountains. 

To  prevent  this,  the  shores  were  lined  with  guards,  and 


SAVILLE'S  NIGHT  RECONNOISSANCE.         1 79 

the  river  patroled  by  boats.  Huge  piles  of  brushwood,  and 
other  inflammable  materials,  were  placed  at  various  points 
along  the  shore  opposite  the  fort,  and  these  were  to  be  kin- 
dled after  nightfall,  the  moment  it  was  discovered  that  the 
ships  were  under  weigh.  Thus  the  fort  would  remain  in 
darkness,  while  the  men-of-war  must  pass  distinctly  through 
the  transient  glare,  and  so  become  excellent  targets. 

The  cannoniers  slept  by  their  guns,  while  Molly's  scarlet 
coat  flamed  along  the  ramparts  by  day,  and  she  flitted  hither 
and  thither  almost  as  restlessly  at  night.  Ever}'  morning 
found  her  as  morose  and  vixenish  as  one  of  the  wildcats  of 
her  native  mountains,  because  the  signal  fires  had  not  blazed, 
and  that  all  had  remained  quiet  on  the  Hudson. 

There  soon  came  a  day  on  which  there  was  a  steady  down- 
fall of  rain,  and  it  was  feared  that  the  brush-heaps  and  com- 
bustibles would  become  so  dampened  that  they  would  not 
kindle.  The  night  promised  to  be  excessively  dark,  and 
Saville  learned  that  the  general  was  growing  anxious. 

He  again  volunteered  to  go  in  his  boat  on  a  reconnois- 
sance,  and  his  offer  was  gladly  accepted. 

"  If  we  fire  three  shots  in  instant  succession,  you  may 
know  that  the  ships  are  under  weigh  up  the  river,  but  if  we 
fire  at  intervals,  give  no  heed,  for  it  may  be  necessary  in 
self-defense,  or  we  may  have  a  skirmish." 

"  Don't  do  anything  rash,"  said  the  governor.  "  You 
are  such  a  fire-eater,  that  I  scarcely  expect  to  see  you 
again. ' ' 

Saville  chose  two  active  young  fellows,  who  had  been  boat- 
men, to  accompany  him,  and  with  mufiied  oars  they  pulled 
vigorously  at  first,  till  they  began  to  approach  the  hostile 
vessels.  Then  they  permitted  themselves  to  drift  slowly  with 
the  tide,  which  was  in  their  favor.  The  darkness  had  be- 
come perfectly  intense,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  save  the 
heavy  patter  of  rain  on  the  water. 


rSa.  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

They  drifted  for  a  period  that  seemed  interminable  to  their 
excited  minds,  and  then  Saville  whispered, 

"  I  fear  we  shall  pass  without  seeing  them.  The  fact  that 
they  have  no  lights  out  is  very  suspicious." 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken  when  the  gentle  breeze  from  the 
south  caused  a  slight  creaking  of  cordage  so  near  that  it 
seemed  just  over  their  heads.  He  at  once  crept  cautiously 
to  the  bow  of  his  boat,  and  put  out  his  hands,  so  that  it 
might  not  strike  with  even  the  slightest  concussion. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  faint  black  outline  loomed  up 
over  him,  and  a  moment  later  his  hands  touched  the  sides  of 
a  ship.  Feeling  stealthily  along,  he  found  that  he  was  near 
the  bow,  and,  by  standing  np,  was  able  to  hold  his  boat  for 
a  time  in  motionless  silence.  He  could  hear  the  confused 
sound  of  voices,  and  the  step  of  the  officer  of  the  watch,  but 
nothing  definite. 

At  last,  footsteps  and  voices  approached  the  bow  of  the 
ship  under  which  he  stood.     Some  one  said  distinctly, 

"It's  cursed  dark." 

"  Yes  ;  but  that  would  be  in  our  favor,  if  we  only  get  a 
little  more  wind  from  the  present  quarter,  and  could  feel 
our  way  up  through  these  black  hills.  It's  just  the  time  to 
catch  the rebels  napping." 

Saville  concluded  that  he  would  now  put  a  word  in  their 
counsels. 

"  Have  my  pistol  ready,"  he  whispered  to  the  nearest  of 
his  companions. 

Then,  by  a  powerful  effort,  he  pushed  his  boat  well  away 
from  the  ship,  and  shouted, 

"  But  the  rebels  are  not  napping,  and,  as  proof,  take  that," 
and  he  fired  his  pistol  where  he  supposed  the  group  to  be. 

There  was  a  sharp  cry  of  pain,  followed  by  great  confu- 
sion for  a  moment,  and  in  the  mean  time  Saville' s  compan- 
ions pulled  rapidly  away. 


SAVILLE'S  NIGHT  RECONNOISSANCE.  l8l 

"  Here,  a  lantern,  quick  !  Hold  it  over  the  side," 
shouted  a  hoarse  voice. 

This  was  all  that  Sa\alle  desired,  and  taking  up  his  rifle  he 
fired  instantly,  and  man  and  lantern  splashed  overboard. 

"  Lights,  lights  !  man  the  guns  !  every  man  to  his  post  !" 
roared  the  same  gruff  voice.  "  This  comes  of  playing  bo- 
peep  in  the  dark.  The  cursed  rebels  might  put  a  keg  of 
powder  under  our  quarter,  and  blow  us  up." 

*'  Would  to  the  gods  I  had  thought  of  that  before,"  cried 
Saville  ;   "  but  1  thank  you  for  the  suggestion  all  the  same." 

"  Stop  his  m.outhwith  grape  shot,"  thundered  the  officer. 
"  Isn't  there  a  musket  or  a  pop-gun  aboard,  that  no  one 
can  fire  a  shot  ?' ' 

"  Pull  sharp  to  the  left,"  said  Saville  to  his  oarsmen. 

The  confusion  and  uproar  on  the  ship  were  so  great  that 
a  moment  or  two  elapsed  before  the  oflScer's  order  could  be 
obeyed,  and  then  a  bow-gun  belched  forth  the  iron  hail, 
and  a  scattering  fire  from  muskets  commenced  ;  but  the 
balls  only  cut  harmlessly  into  the  water  in  the  region  where 
the  bold  patrols  had  been. 

When  once  under  the  rayless  shadow  of  the  western  moun- 
tain, Saville  felt  safe  from  pursuit.  In  the  mean  time  nu- 
merous lights  appeared  on  the  other  ships,  and  indicated  their 
positions. 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you,"  said  Saville  to  his  compan- 
ions, "  to  do  something  that,  after  all,  is  not  so  dangerous 
as  it  seems.  The  ships  there  are  lighted  up,  while  complete 
darkness  covers  us.     One  of  you  can  scull,  I  suppose. 

"  Yes  ;  both." 

*•  Who  is  the  best  shot  ?" 

"  I  used  to  bring  a  squirrel  out  of  the  tallest  trees,"  said 
one  of  the  men. 

"  Well,  by  sculling  we  can  move  noiselessly  around  among 
the  ships,  now  on  one  side,  now  on  the  other,  and  make 


l8a  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

them  think  there  are  a  dozen  boats  here  instead  of  one.  I 
.  wish  two  shots  fired  in  rapid  succession  occasionally,  to  in- 
crease the  impression  of  numbers.  In  this  way  we  can  keep 
them  in  an  uproar  and  state  of  alarm  all  night,  while  we,  by 
moving  rapidly  from  point  to  point,  will  run  but  little  risk 
of  being-  hit. ' ' 

His  companions  had  the  nerve  to  enter  upon  the  scheme 
at  first  with  zest ;  and  one  of  them,  seizing  an  oar,  soon 
propelled  the  boat  within  range  of  the  ship  with  which  they 
had  first  come  in  contact.  Dropping  well  astern,  they  ap- 
proached slowly  and  cautiously  her  nearest  quarter.  Soon 
the  outline  of  a  human  form  gave  Saville  a  fair  mark,  and 
his  rifle  again  rang  out  with  startling  distinctness  in  the  si- 
lent night. 

The  man  with  the  oar  then  sculled  rapidly  toward  the 
eastern  shore,  passing  directly  aft  of  the  vessel.  Again  there 
was  the  trampling  of  feet,  and  a  hurried  giving  of  orders,  and 
many  shots  were  fired  in  the  direction  from  whence  had 
been  seen  the  flash  of  Saville' s  rifle.  But,  in  the  momentary 
delay,  the  lively  little  craft  had  passed  so  far  to  the  eastward 
as  to  be  out  of  range. 

"  Now,"  said  Saville,  "  let  us  give  them  two  shots  on  the 
other  quarter.  The  moment  we  fire,  scull  down  the  river. 
Come  around  well  abreast,  so  that  it  will  seem  as  if  our  shots 
were  fired  from  another  boat." 

In  a  few  moments,  the  firing  from  the  ship  ceased,  as  it 
seemed  to  produce  no  effect ;  but  there  was  evidently  great 
excitement  on  board. 

They  had  scarcely  reached  the  position  which  Saville  de- 
sired, when  several  men  were  sent  aloft  with  lanterns,  in  the 
hope  that  their  rays  might  penetrate  the  darkness  more 
effectually. 

' '  Steady  and  careful  now,"  said  Saville.  "  Let  us  each  pick 
off  one  of  those  fellows  in  the  rigging.     Fire  just  after  me." 


SAVILLE'S  XIGHT  RECOXNOISSANCE.  1 83 

Thus  to  the  bewildered  and  harassed  marines  two  flashes 
came  from  a  new  and  unexpected  point. 

Saville's  man  dropped  plump  on  the  deck,  the  other  let 
his  lantern  fall,  and,  after  an  ineffectual  effort  to  climb 
down,  fell  also. 

But  the  enemy  were  now  better  prepared,  and  bullets  fell 
thickly  around  the  unseen  assailants. 

Fortunately  they  escaped,  and  soon  reached  a  point  to  the 
«outh  where  their  position  was  unsuspected. 

"  They  are  getting  too  sharp  for  us  here,"  said  Saville  ; 
*'  suppose  we  next  have  a  skirmish  with  that  big  fellow 
yonder. ' ' 

His  companions  agreed,  but  rather  reluctantly  ;  for  this 
measure  of  attacking  an  English  fleet  was  m.ore  than  they 
bargained  for  on  leaving  the  fort. 

"  I  will  give  you  a  crack  across  her  bow,"  said  the  man 
at  the  oar  ;  "  but  would  rather  not  go  any  lower  down." 

It  was  arranged  that  two  shots  should  be  fired  again. 
Drifting  with  the  tide,  they  slowly  approached  the  second 
and  larger  ship,  which  was  the  Phoenix,  and  watched  for 
their  opportunity.  In  the  meanwhile,  comparative  silence 
was  again  restored,  though  it  was  evident  that  all  hands  on 
both  the  ships  of  the  line  and  their  tenders  were  kept  in 
sleepless  vigilance  at  their  posts  by  their  ubiquitous  assail- 
ants, who  numbered  but  three. 

At  last,  dusky  forms  appeared,  and  the  two  rifles  again 
awoke  the  sleeping  echoes,  but  with  what  effect  could  not 
be  seen. 

The  commander  of  the  Phcenix,  however,  warned  by  the 
experience  of  the  other  ship,  had  stationed  marines  all  along 
the  sides  of  his  vessels,  and  the  return  volley  was  so  prompt 
and  accurate  that  Saville's  fellow  marksman  was  slightly 
wounded.  Happily  the  man  at  the  oar  escaped,  and  they 
again  passed  out  of  range,  by  going  toward  the  western  shore^ 
Roe— VIII— I 


184  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

and  the  English  officers  soon  checked  the  useless  firing  at 
random. 

But  Saville  had  effected  his  object.  There  would  be  no 
sleep  on  the  British  vessels  that  night,  nor  any  hope  of  catch- 
ing the  "  rebels  napping."  So  he  hoisted  sail,  and  quietly 
stood  up  the  river,  leaving  the  sorely  puzzled  and  not  a  little 
frightened  British  crews  standing  at  their  guns  and  alarm- 
posts,  so  that  any  attempt  at  boarding,  on  the  part  of  the  in- 
definite number  of  rebels  imagined  in  the  surrounding  dark- 
ness, might  be  repelled, 

Saville  and  his  companions  received  high  praise  for  their 
conduct,  and  were  soon  sleeping  peacefully,  while  the  har- 
assed enemy  remained  on  the  alert  until  daybreak. 

Note. — The  incidents  of  the  preceding  chapters  are  largely 
founded  on  fact.  The  tidings  of  the  irruption  of  the  British  ships 
into  the  waters  of  the  Hudson  were  brought  as  described.  A  ten- 
der of  these  ships  ventured  within  range  of  Fort  Montgomery,  and 
received  a  shot  in  her  quarter.  On  retiring  down  the  river,  her 
boat  was  sent  ashore,  a  farm-house  burnt,  and  the  boat,  on  re- 
turning, was  fired  upon.  The  Phoenix  and  Rose  approached  within 
six  miles  of  the  fort,  and,  whenever  opportunity  offered  the  Eng- 
lish vessels  were  annoyed  by  marksmen  in  boats  or  from  the  shore. 


DARK  DAYS.  185 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


DARK    DAYS. 


ON  the  following  day  the  commanders  of  the  British 
vessels  satisfied  themselves  that  fuller  preparations 
for  resistance  had  been  made  than  they  supposed  ;  and,  not 
relishing  the  experience  of  the  preceding  night,  nor  consid- 
ering it  safe  to  remain  in  a  position  where  the  deep  shadows 
of  the  mountains  might  afford  concealment  until  an  attack- 
ing force  was  close  upon  them,  they  ordered  their  ships 
down  the  river  to  the  old  anchorage. 

Fear  of  immediate  attack  having  passed,  Saville's  thoughts 
recurred  to  Vera  and  her  father,  and  he  proposed  visiting 
them  that  evening,  hoping  that  he  might  find  Mr.  Brown  in 
a  condition  to  carry  out  the  measures  on  which  his  own  and 
Vera's  welfare  depended.  But  during  the  afternoon  he  was 
hastily  summoned  to  headquarters. 

"  I  can  now  give  you  a  quasi  leave  of  absence,"  said 
General  Clinton  ;  "  and  you  have  earned  it.  Go  and  look 
after  your  mother's  safety.  But  first  deliver  these  dispatches 
to  his  Excellency,  General  Washington.  They  are  impor- 
tant, and  must  reach  him  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 
Your  escort  will  be  ready  within  an  hour  on  the  further 
shore.  I  have  mentioned  your  name  with  praise  in  my  dis- 
patches, and  though  I  shall  feel  your  loss,  you  will  probably 
be  assigned  to  duty  in  the  main  army.  When  things  are 
somewhat  settled,  your  heavy  baggage  will  be  sent  after  you. 
And  now,  sir,  hasten.  Give  those  papers  into  his  Excel- 
lency's own  hands,  or  into  those  of  his  private  secretary." 


l86  NEAR    TO    NATURE'S  HEART. 

Saville  was  greatly  pleased  at  this  turn  of  affairs,  and,  in 
the  excitement  and  bustle  attendant  upon  his  hurried  de- 
parture, forgot  for  a  time  the  inmates  of  the  cabin.  When 
he  did  remember  them,  it  was  with  a  pang  of  genuine  pain 
and  regret,  that  he  could  not  see  Vera  before  his  departure. 
As  this  was  impossible,  he  penned  a  few  hasty  lines,  explain- 
ing his  sudden  movements,  and  urging  that  she  should  find 
a  safer  retreat,  and  that  her  father  should  enlist  openly  in  the 
war.  This  was  sent  to  the  surgeon  at  Fort  Constitution, 
with  the  request  that  he  would  deliver  it.  Unfortunately, 
the  missive  was  never  received. 

Having  arrived  in  New  York,  and  delivered  his  dispatches 
as  directed,  Saville  received  permission  to  provide  for  his 
mother's  safety. 

The  old  lady,  however,  would  not  leave  her  city  home, 
asserting, 

' '  I  have  naught  to  do  with  this  unnatural  broil,  and  shall 
demand  protection  from  both  parties." 

But,  after  all,  her  chief  motive  was  the  desire  to  be  near 
her  beloved  son,  who,  she  hoped,  might  be  assigned  to 
duty  upon  the  works  that  were  going  up  at  various  points 
on  the  island.  In  this  expectation  she  was  ready  to  endure 
the  terrors  attendant  upon  the  city's  bombardment. 

Saville  therefore  gave  up  his  leave  of  absence,  and  at  once 
reported  for  duty  again.  In  consideration  of  his  natural  de- 
sire to  see  more  of  his  mother  aftef  so  long  an  absence,  he 
was  given  charge  of  the  construction  of  some  redoubts  not  far 
from  his  own  house,  and  at  a  point  where  his  wife  could 
plainly  scan  his  movements  with  a  glass.  Often  and  darkly 
she  scowled  upon  him. 

But  the  disastrous  battle  of  Long  Island  soon  occurred, 
and  was  speedily  followed  by  the  retreat  of  the  American 
forces  from  the  city  and  island.  Saville,  in  his  sphere,  and 
to  the  extent  of  his  ability,  seconded  Washington's  masterly 


DARK  DAYS.  187 

tise  of  the  pick  and  shovel  in  the  disheartening  campaign 
that  followed.  He  now  sought  thoroughly  to  learn  his 
profession,  and  became  an  efficient  officer.  Washington 
learned  to  know  something  of  his  value,  finding  that  he  had 
promptness  and  energy,  which  enabled  him  to  accomplish 
much  even  with  few  men  ;  and  at  times,  defenses  reared  in 
a  night  were  worth  regiments. 

On  the  4th  and  5th  of  November,  the  British  forces  began 
to  retire  from  before  Washington's  strong  position  in  the  in- 
terior of  Westchester  County,  taking  the  roads  leading  south- 
ward  and  toward  the  river.  As  soon  as  it  became  evident 
that  the  enemy  would  cross  into  the  Jerseys  and  menace 
Philadelphia,  Saville  was  sent  thither  to  aid  in  strengthening 
the  defenses  of  that  city.  Thus  his  hope  of  seeing  Vera  at 
the  close  of  the  fall  campaign  was  disappointed.  He  wrote 
to  her  again,  as  he  had  several  times  before,  in  care  of  the 
surgeon  at  Fort  Constitution.  But  that  officer  had  been  as- 
signed to  duty  elsewhere,  and  the  letters  never  reached  their 
destination.  Saville  comforted  himself  with  tlie  hope  that 
Vera  was  informed  of  his  movem.ents  and  continued  remem* 
brance. 

As  day  after  day  passed,  and  nothing  was  seen  or  heard 
of  her  friend,  a  great  dread  began  to  chill  Vera's  heart 
Her  father  had  come  back  from  his  watch  on  the  Dunder- 
berg  in  a  wretched  condition  of  mind.  With  scarcely  a 
word,  he  had  cowered  all  the  long  night  in  his  dark  corner. 
But,  as  the  result  of  rest  and  quiet,  the  incubus  lifted  from 
his  mind  somewhat  in  the  morning,  and  Vera  heard  of  Sa- 
ville's  peril  in  following  the  tender  down  the  river,  and  of 
his  firing  into  the  marauder's  boat.  Of  his  own  share  in  the 
transaction  her  father  was  characteristically  silent,  even  to  his 
daughter. 

On  the  dark  and  stormy  night  of  Saville' sreconnoissance. 
the  southern  breeze  had  borne  faintly  through  the  damp  air 


i88  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

the  reports  of  the  guns.      To  her,  every  such   sound  now 
meant  danger  to  him. 

The  days  passed,  and  still  he  did  not  come.  Her  father 
told  her  that  the  ships  had  moved  down  the  river.  As  far 
as  she  could  judge,  the  garrison  opposite  had  no  apprehen- 
sion of  immediate  attack.  She  urged  her  father  to  go  down 
to  Fort  Montgomery  and  make  direct  inquiries  ;  but  vainly. 
Saville's  prolonged  and  unexplained  absence  had  awakened 
his  morbid  suspicions  and  fears,  and  his  mind  was  so  shat- 
tered that  he  was  not  capable  of  the  effort. 

A  look  of  wistful,  anxious  expectancy  became  the  habitual 
expression  of  Vera's  face.  The  slightest  sound  startled 
her.  In  her  daily  tasks,  her  face  was  ever  toward  the  win- 
dow. The  breaking  of  a  twig,  the  bark  of  a  squirrel, 
brought  her  to  the  door.  She  often  ventured  down  to  the 
shore,  and  strained  her  eyes  in  the  vain  effort  to  recognize 
him  on  the  island  opposite.  Constant  prayer  for  his  welfare 
and  speedy  return  was  in  her  heart. 

At  the  twilight  hour,  when  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
appear,  she  would  climb  to  the  rocky  height  behind  the 
cabin,  and  wait  and  watch,  as  they  who  are  wrecked  on  a 
barren  island  scan  the  horizon  for  a  ship.  As  dusk  deepened 
into  night,  her  despondency  would  become  more  leaden 
and  oppressive.  Then  she  would  drag  her  heavy  steps  back 
to  the  cabin,  and  sigh  and  sob  herself  to  sleep. 

Not  even  Gula's  entreaties  could  induce  her  to  eat  much, 
and  she  grew  wan  and  spirit-like  indeed.  The  old  woman 
began  to  shake  her  head  ominously,  and  m. utter, 

"  I'se  afeard  she's  beginnin'  to  hear  voices.  'Twill  be 
orful  lonely  if  she  goes  home  afore  ole  Gula. " 

One  evening  after  she  had  been  vainly  watching,  she  tried 
to  sing  the  musical  signal  which  he  had  so  often  answered 
by  voice  and  flute, 

"  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows." 


DARK  DA  VS.  189 

She  sang  one  line  with  a  pathos  that  would  have  touched 
the  stoniest  nature,  and  then  held  her  throbbing  heart  to 
listen.  The  weird  notes  of  a  whippoorwill  from  the  lonely 
valley  were  the  only  answer. 

She  threw  herself  upon  the  ground,  like  a  child,  in  an 
agony  of  grief,  and  wept  until  utterly  exhausted.  When  she 
looked  up,  the  lurid  glare  of  the  beacon  fires  was  again 
upon  the  mountain-tops,  but  he  had  not  come. 

"  O  God  !"  she  sighed  wearily.  "I  am  a  weak  child. 
I  had  but  one  friend  —one  brother.      Where  is  Thy  mercy  ?" 

"  O  mother  !  are  you  happy  in  heaven,  when  I  am  so 
lonely .'" 

Poor  Vera  was  in  the  deepest  mystery  of  earthly  disci- 
pline. Her  God,  her  mother,  and  her  friend,  all  seemed  to 
have  deserted  her  that  night,  and  she  could  scarcely  drag  her 
weary  feet  to  the  home  where  no  gentle  sympathy  awaited. 

Her  father  was  away  upon  the  hills  with  his  rifle  most  of 
the  time,  and  was  wholly  absorbed  by  his  interest  in  the 
progress  of  the  war,  at  which  he  could  only  guess,  as  he 
would  speak  to  no  one.  Vera  had  hoped  that  he  might 
again  meet  Saville,  and  whenever  he  returned,  she  eagerly 
questioned  him. 

Old  Gula,  in  her  strange  superstition,  sorrowed  mostly 
for  herself,  as  she  saw  Vera  growing  pale  and  weak  like  the 
parent  who  had  died. 

"  Young  missy  is  a  gwine  home  to  her  mudder,  and  I'll 
be  left  all  alone.     Why  can't  de  voices  call  me  too  .?" 

On  the  evening  after  her  almost  despairing  grief.  Vera  said 
to  herself,  "  I  can  endure  this  suspense  no  longer.  He  is 
either  sick,  wounded,  or  dead  ;  for  he  could  not  have  left 
without  a  word  of  farewell.  I  will  go  to  the  fort  and  find 
out.  He  may  have  needed  my  help,  while  I  have  been 
weakly  mourning  for  him." 

Nerved  by  this  thought,   she  waited  not  a  moment,  lest 


19©  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

her  maidenly  timidity  should  obtain  the  mastery.  For  his 
sake — impelled  by  the  thought  that  he  might  possibly  be  in 
need  of  her  care — she  could  venture  to  face  the  stare  of 
strangers. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  row  her  light  skiff  to  the  opposite 
shore,  and  bitter  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  the 
two  former  occasions  on  which  she  had  crossed  at  that  place. 

Near  the  spot  where  she  had  landed  when  in  quest  of  the 
surgeon,  she  saw  a  small  group  of  men,  and,  from  their 
uniforms,  surmised  that  they  were  officers.  It  occurred  to 
her  that  she  might  question  them,  and  be  saved  the  ordeal 
of  meeting  others.  She  concluded  to  ask  for  the  surgeon, 
since,  if  Saville  were  sick,  wounded,  or — her  heart  sickened 
at  the  thought — he  would  know  all  the  facts. 

Unfortunately,  the  officers  whom  she  was  about  to  address 
were  wild,  reckless  fellows,  who  had  made  their  normal  con= 
dition  worse  by  liquor, 

**  There's  a  rare  bird,"  cried  one,  as  Vera  approached. 

"  I  would  see  Mr.  Jasper,  the  surgeon,"  she  said  modestly, 
with  downcast  eyes  ;  ' '  and  crave  the  favor  of  being  shown 
where  I  may  find  him. 

"  The  surgeon,  pretty  miss  !  you  have  no  need  of  a  sur- 
geon. It  is  a  gay  young  gallant  like  myself  you  are  looking 
for. ' ' 

"You  do  me  great  wrong,  sir,"  she  replied  coldly; 
■*  and  if  there  is  a  man  of  honor  present,  he  will  grant  my 
request." 

' '  We  have  no  surgeon, ' '  continued  the  first  speaker  reck- 
lessly. *'  A  soldier's  only  business  is  to  die,  and  to  have  a 
jovial  time  while  he  can.  So  come,  my  pretty  one,  ex- 
change your  frowns  for  smiles." 

"As  you  are  men,"  cried  Vera  desperately,  trembling 
like  a  leaf,  ' '  have  respect  for  a  defenseless  girl,  and  tell  me 
where  I  may  find  Surgeon  Jasper." 


DARK  DAYS.  191 

The  instincts  of  a  gentleman  still  lingered  in  one  of  the 
party,  and,  in  response  to  this  appeal,  he  said  soberly, 

"He  is  right,  miss  ;  there  is  no  surgeon  at  the  present 
moment  in  the  garrison,  Dr.  Jasper  having  been  ordered 
away. " 

'   Then — then — may  I  see  Mr.  Saville  V '   faltered  Vera. 

"  Saville,  Saville,"  laughed  the  first  speaker  coarsely. 
"  She  had  him  in  mind  all  the  time." 

In  pity  for  her  distress,  the  second  speaker  again  came  to 
her  relief,  and  said, 

"  Lieutenant  Saville  is  not  here,  and  I  have  heard  that  he 
was  ordered  hastily  to  New  York." 

"  Come,  my  lass  o'  the  hills,"  struck  in  the  tipsy  youth. 
**  The  crows  have  eaten  Saville  before  this.  I'll  be  to  you 
a  far  better  lover. ' ' 

'*  For  shame,  Dick,  let  her  alone.  Saville  will  call  you 
to  bloody  account,  if  he  hears  of  this  nonsense." 

"  Things  have  come  to  a  fine  pass,"  blustered  the  fellow, 
**  if  I've  got  to  ask  Saville' s  permission  to  speak  to  a  moun- 
tain wench.  By  Jove  !  I'll  kiss  her,  if  I  fight  a  dozen 
Savilles,"  and  he  started  forward  to  give  the  insult. 

Vera,  with  her  old  instantaneous  quickness,  which  had 
once  surprised  Saville,  eluded  him,  sprang  into  her  skiff, 
and  was  out  in  the  stream  in  a  moment,  while  her  insulter, 
unsteady  from  liquor,  missed  his  footing,  and  fell  into  the 
water.  His  companions  roared  with  laughter  at  his  plight, 
and  ere  he  could  scramble  out,  sputtering  and  profane. 
Vera  was  half-way  across  the  river. 

Every  nerve  in  the  poor  girl's  body  was  tingling  with  in- 
dignation and  fear,  when  she  reached  the  shore.  She 
scarcely  had  strength  to  climb  over  the  hills  to  the  cabin, 
and  then  fainted  across  its  threshold. 

Old  Gula  was  in  sore  dismay,  but  had  sense  enough  to 
carry    her   to   the   cool  spring,    and    bathe   her   face.     At 


192  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

last  she  slowly  revived,  but  was  seriously  ill  for  several 
days. 

Still,  the  bitterness  of  her  mental  trouble  had  been  re- 
lieved, for  Saville's  absence  was  accounted  for.  He  had 
been  ordered  hurriedly  away.  In  her  strong  trust,  she  be- 
lieved that  there  had  been  no  opportunity  for  a  farewell 
visit,  and  there  was  no  necessity  for  thinking  that  he  was 
either  sick,  wounded,  or  dead.  Although  he  was  exposed 
to  the  innumerable  risks  of  a  brave  man  in  an  active  cam- 
paign, her  confidence  increased  that  God  would  spare  him 
in  answer  to  her  prayers. 

With  reviving  hope  and  feith,  her  strength  and  vigor  re- 
turned ;  for,  in  her  case,  the  spiritual  and  physical  organiza- 
tions were  so  closely  allied  that  one  could  not  suffer  without 
keen  sympathy  from  the  other.  But  in  both  she  was  natu- 
rally healthful,  having  been  nurtured  in  the  atmosphere  of 
truth,  and  the  bracing  air  of  the  mountains. 

Her  father,  upon  her  illness,  seemed  at  last  somewhat 
conscious  of  his  daughter's  need,  and,  in  his  poor  way, 
sought  to  meet  it.  He  waited  upon  her  with  unwonted  ten- 
derness, and  brought  the  delicacies  of  wood  and  stream. ; 
but  he  had  lost  the  power  to  speak  soothing  and  appreciative 
words.  His  own  disordered  mind  was  tossed  on  such  a  sea 
of  troubles,  that  he  had  no  calming  thoughts  for  another. 

Thus,  in  her  sad  isolation,  Vera  was  compelled  to  look 
heavenward,  and,  in  her  long  hours  of  weakness,  the  unseen 
world  of  faith  grew  very  near  and  real.  She  felt  sure  that 
her  mother  was  watching  at  her  side,  and  in  the  night,  at 
times,  fancied  she  saw  the  dear,  familiar  form.  The  impres- 
sion v/as  often  so  strong,  that  she  would  reach  out  her  arms 
with  expressions  of  endearment,  or  speak  her  thoughts  with 
the  freedom  of  olden  time,  when  sure  of  loving  sympathy. 

Her  mother's  favorite  text,  "  Let  not  your  heart  be 
troubled,"  acquired  daily  richer  and  fuller  meaning,  and  the 


DARK  DA  YS.  193 

ability  to  trustfully  cast  all  her  burdens  on  her  Saviour  in- 
creased. 

So,  although  the  strain  and  nervous  excitement  of  the  past 
year  had  been  very  great,  she  slowly  but  surely  rallied  back 
into  her  old,  vigorous  health.  She  would  need  it  all  in  her 
coming  desperate  struggle  for  bare  existence. 

By  the  time  she  had  fully  recovered,  the  autumn  winds 
were  prophesying  of  winter,  and,  with  a  forethought  learned 
in  the  hard  school  of  experience,  she  realized  the  necessity 
of  making  all  possible  provision.  She  knew  how  little  her 
father  was  to  be  depended  on,  and  he  might  grow  worse. 
Therefore,  as  she  grew  strong,  she  became  busily  engaged 
with  her  old  playmates,  the  squirrels,  in  hoarding  everything 
that  could  be  preserved  for  coming  use. 

As  her  father  could  not  be  induced  to  join  the  Continental 
service  openly,  she  persuaded  him,  as  far  as  she  could,  to 
resume  his  old  hunting  and  trapping  pursuits. 

It  might  be  a  long  time  before  she  would  see  Saville  again, 
or  before  her  hope  of  finding  friends  and  a  recognized  place 
in  society  would  be  realized.  So,  nothing  remained  but  the 
patient  performance  of  present  duties. 

And  yet  the  dangers  resulting  from  her  position,  and  her 
father's  vain  effort  to  hide  from  all  observation,  were  in- 
creasing. Nothing  so  attracts  attention  as  unusual  efforts  to 
shun  it,  and  nothing  so  piques  curiosity  as  mystery  and  con  • 
cealmenL 

Relieved  from  Saville' s  immediate  presence,  it  was  not 
long  before  Molly's  tongue  began  to  wag  again,  in  dark 
hints  as  to  the  uncanny  character  of  the  inmates  of  the  cabin. 
While  such  gossip  had  no  weight  with  the  officers,  it  had 
with  certain  of  the  ignorant  soldiery,  and  gradually  Vera  and 
Gula  were  acquiring  the  titles  of  the  "  white  and  black 
witches  of  the  Highlands."  If  Molly  had  urged  on  some 
of  the  baser  sort,  over  whom  she  had  obtained  almost  all  the 


194  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

power  of  a  gyps}'-  queen,  Vera's  homely  duties  might  have 
found  tragic  interruption  ;  but  a  wholesome  fear  of  Saville's 
vengeance  restrained  her.  And  yet  Vera,  unconsciously, 
was  living  over  a  mine  which  might  be  fired  at  any  time. 

To  the  officers,  also,  Brown,  from  his  seclusion,  and  the 
fact  that  no  one  could  account  for  him,  was  an  object  of 
suspicion,  and  they  would  be  inclined  to  deal  summarily 
with  him  should  any  one  bring  a  definite  accusation. 

But  though  wrong-doing  in  the  past,  and  most  unwise 
action  now,  must  cause  their  legitimate  evil  results,  God 
would  not  permit  his  child  to  suffer  beyond  her  ability  to 
endure. 

During  the  month  of  October,  the  beacon  fires  had  often 
flamed,  and  yet  while  Vera  and  her  father  saw  that  there  was 
unusual  stir  and  preparation  in  the  garrisons,  and  extraor- 
dinary efforts  to  obstruct  the  navigation  of  the  river,  no 
attack  was  made,  and  they  remained  in  almost  total  igno- 
rance of  the  progress  of  the  war. 

At  last  the  exile  could  endure  his  anxiety  no  longer,  and 
he  determined  to  find  out  the  condition  of  affairs  ;  but, 
with  his  old  characteristic  caution,  went  across  the  moun- 
tains to  an  interior  village,  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of 
barter.  He  had  in  his  mind  the  inoffensive-appearing  old 
man  whom  he  had  once  before  ventured  to  question,  and 
felt  that  if  circumstances  favored,  he  could  do  so  again  with- 
out risk. 

He  found  the  aged  gardener  at  work  as  before,  and  as 
talkative  as  ever.  But  the  dismal  tale  that  he  told  of  the 
American  defeat  on  Long  Island,  of  the  evacuation  of  New 
York,  of  continued  retreats,  and,  worse  than  all,  of  the 
second  irruption  of  the  British  ships  into  the  Hudson,  caused 
Mr.  Brown's  cheeks,  already  pale,  to  grow  more  ashen. 

"  How  is  it  you  don't  know  'bout  these  things  ?"  asked 
the  old  man  with  sudden  curiosity. 


DARK  DA  VS.  195 

"I  live  back  in  the  mountains,"  was  the  hasty  reply  ; 
and  the  fear-stricken  man  waited  for  no  further  questions, 
but  started  for  the  hills,  with  the  one  desire  to  find  in  them 
some  impenetrable  recess  for  concealment. 

At  first,  he  was  bent  upon  leaving  the  cabm  at  once  ;  but 
Vera,  with  gentle  firmness,  refused  to  listen  to  any  of  his 
wild  plans.  She  saw  clearly  that  the  time  had  come  when 
her  judgment  and  will  must  be  supreme.  But  he  ventured 
less  and  less  abroad,  and  the  impression  appeared  to  grow 
upon  him  that  his  dusky  corner  was  the  safest  place.  Here 
he  would  often  remain  all  day,  and  sometimes  through  the 
night  also,  apparently  dreading  to  move. 

As  one  of  the  results  of  her  father's  condition,  the  task 
of  providing  food  devolved  chiefly  on  "Vera  ;  and  the  bleak- 
ness of  November  and  the  biting  cold  of  winter  often  chilled 
her  weary  frame,  as  she  wandered  over  the  hills  in  quest  of 
game.  But  the  chill  at  heart,  the  cold,  dreary  despondency 
which  often  crept  over  her  while  engaged  in  these  un- 
womanly and  unseasonable  labors,  was  harder  to  bear.  She 
could  not  now  anticipate  the  welcome  of  a  gentle  and  sym- 
pathetic mother  on  her  return.  Even  when  cold  and  ex- 
hausted, she  almost  dreaded  going  back  to  the  cabin  where 
her  father  crouched  and  cowered,  haunted  by  fears  that  were 
becoming  contagious,  and  where  weird  old  Gula  muttered 
and  mumbled  unceasingly  of  her  unearthly  voices.  The 
poor  girl  herself  was  growing  morbid  in  her  misfortunes  and 
unnatural  surroundings. 

The  hard- struggle  for  mere  existence  began  to  blunt  her 
finer  sensibilities,  and  she  was  often  too  weary  for  even 
prayer  or  thought.  Like  many  others,  under  the  increasing 
stress  of  earthly  care,  she  permitted  herself  to  lose  gradually 
her  hold  upon  the  divine  strength  and  patience,  which  her 
mother  had  ever  enjoyed  through  her  confiding  and  un- 
questioning faith.     Not  that  she  entertained  doubts  of  God's 


*9<5  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

ability  and  willingness  to  help,  or  cherished  resentful 
thoughts  at  her  lot ;  but,  in  the  pressure  of  daily  duties, 
prayer  was  neglected.  She  was  drifting  unconsciously  from 
the  quiet  waters,  where  feith  had  kept  her  spirit  moored  in 
peace,  out  upon  the  restless  sea  of  mere  human  endeavor 
and  dependence.  Like  many  another,  she  could  still  pray 
"  Lead  me  not  into  temptation,  and  deliver  me  from  evil  ;" 
but  for  '*  daily  bread  "  she  turned  practically  to  her  traps  in 
the  thickets,  to  her  fowling-piece,  and  to  the  diminishing 
Stores  that  her  own  hands  had  gathered.  Unfortunately, 
the  question  of  daily  bread  was  the  absorbing  one,  and,  as 
we  have  seen,  it  did  not  bring  her  near  the  Divine  source  of 
spiritual  largeness  and  growth.  Thus  her  life  began  to  grow 
hard,  material,  and  devoid  of  those  influences  which  had 
made  her  appear  to  Saville  more  akin  to  the  supernatural 
world  in  which  she  believed,  than  the  tangible  one  which 
was  all  to  him. 

The  poor  child  was  learning  to  employ  bodily  fatigue  as 
many  use  narcotic  drugs,  and  sought  to  escape  from  her 
desperate  loneliness  in  the  oblivion  of  sleep,  whenever  her 
tasks  permitted.  In  dreams,  at  least,  she  occasionally  saw 
her  mother's  loved  face  bending  over  her,  with  the  old  ex- 
pression of  tenderness  ;  more  frequently  Saville' s  flute  gave 
the  musical  signal  from  the  rocky  height  above  her  grotto, 
and  she,  in  spirit,  hastened  to  the  tryst ;  but  ever  to  awake 
and  find  it  only  a  dream.  Although  she  would  sob  herself 
to  sleep  again,  she  would  still  hope  for  the  return  of  the 
vision,  that  she  might  once  more  see  his  face  and  hear  his 
voice. 

Vera  began  to  realize,  in  some  degree,  that  she  was  grow- 
ing narrow,  and  dwindling  toward  a  mere  animal  existence  ; 
and  she  shed  bitter  tears  over  the  truth.  She  sometimes 
tried  to  overcome  the  tendency,  and  would  take  down  the 
Bible,  or  the  Plays,  after  the  labors  of  the  day  ;  but  her  head 


DARK  DAYS.  197 

would  soon  droop  upon  the  page,  and  the  pine  knots  sink 
into  ashes,  as  had  her  hopes. 

Her  father  was  dreading  lest  he  should  become  known, 
and  compelled  to  carry  his  secret  into  the  presence  of  ques- 
tioning curiosity.  With  almost  terror  at  the  thought,  Vera 
began  to  ask  herself, 

•'  Am  I  always  to  live  this  life  ?  Am  I  to  be  left  here  till 
I  become  little  better  than  the  beasts  and  birds  of  prey  that 
hide  in  these  mountains  }  Indeed,  I  envy  them  ;  for  they, 
at  least,  have  companions  of  their  own  kind." 

She  was  able  to  feel  her  isolation  more  keenly  since  she 
had  been  given  a  glimpse  of  the  world,  and,  in  her  intimacy 
with  Saville,  had  learned  to  know  the  sweets  of  congenial 
society  and  friendship. 

Though  so  very  young,  she  was  becoming  one  of  earth'? 
weariest  pilgrims,  and  at  times  she  almost  felt,  when  be- 
numbed with  cold,  like  lying  down  in  some  wild  mountain- 
gorge,  and  letting  the  snow  drift  over  her  as  she  sank  to 
sleep.  If  she  had  believed,  with  Saville,  that  it  would  have 
been  a  dreamless,  eternal  sleep,  she  would  undoubtedly 
have  yielded  to  the  temptation. 

Thus  the  winter  dragged  heavily  on,  till  the  sun  turned 
from  its  decline  southward,  and  began  to  fill  the  mountains 
with  brighter  and  more  genial  rays.  But  she,  who  had 
always  welcomed  this  change,  scarcely  heeded  it.  Perhais 
the  sharp  suffering  and  seemingly  untoward  events  soon  to 
come,  would  be  better  than  the  slow,  increasing  pressure  <A 
the  sordid  cares  and  loneliness  of  her  lot.  Immediate  and 
pressing  dangers  might  break  up  the  apathy  of  practical  un- 
belief, wherein  God  becomes  a  being  who  must  be  prayed 
to  and  served,  but  ceases  to  be  a  helpful,  sympathetic  friend 
Anything  that  would  drive  her  to  Him  as  a  refuge  would  be 
a  blessing  ;  anything  that  broke  the  leaden  monotony  of 
her  life,  a  healthful  changa 


198  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART* 


CHAPTER   XVII. 
"the  white  witch  of  the  highlands." 

IN  the  latter  part  of  February,  the  stores  in  their  little 
cabin  ran  so  low  that  it  was  necessary  they  should  be 
replenished  by  a  visit  to  some  country  store.  But  her  father, 
from  long  inaction  and  brooding,  was  in  his  worst  mood, 
and  it  was  in  vain  that  Vera  besought  him  to  go  on  the 
errand.  At  last,  in  her  desperation,  she  decided  one  morn- 
ing to  go  herself.  On  ascending  the  hill  behind  the  cabin, 
she  saw  that  the  river  was  covered  with  smooth  ice.  She 
went  down  to  the  point  of  land  which  enabled  her  to  look 
up  the  river,  and  through  the  cold,  clear  air,  the  villages  of 
New  Windsor  and  Newburgh  seemed  not  far  away.  Re- 
turning, she  took  a  little  of  iheir  hoarded  money,  and,  with- 
out a  word  to  her  father,  started  on  what  was,  to  her,  like 
the  voyage  of  Columbus,  a  journey  into  the  unknown.  Her 
only  weapon  of  defense  was  a  light,  strong  staff,  pointed 
with  iron,  which  would  enable  her  to  \xy  the  ice,  and  also 
assist  in  walking.  She  kept  close  to  the  western  shore,  so 
that,  like  a  timid  hare,  she  might  fly  to  cover,  if  she  deemed 
it  necessary.  Though  she  found  the  way  longer  than  she 
supposed,  and  the  effort  to  walk  on  the  smooth  ice  against 
the  wind  very  fatiguing,  she  reached  in  safety  the  shores  of 
New  Windsor,  where  she  saw  a  building  whose  appearance 
led  her  to  hope  that  she  might  there  obtain  what  she  wished. 
To  her  joy  the  surmise  proved  correct,  and  she  was  saved 
forther  weary  steps.      She  asked  and  obtained   permission  to 


**THE  WHITE  WITCH  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS."  199 

sit  down  and  rest  awhile.  Many  and  curious  were  the 
glances  cast  upon  her  by  the  loungers  that  always  infest  such 
places,  especially  in  winter. 

Some  tried  to  engage  her  in  convereation,  but  there  was 
something  in  their  tones  and  manner  that,  though  she  did 
not  understand,  she  disliked,  and,  with  an  innate  dignity 
and  reserve,  which  is  a  true  woman's  sure  protection  unless 
men  are  equal  to  brute  violence,  she  silenced  them.  She 
would  have  gladly  hastened  away,  had  she  not  felt  that  rest 
and  the  wrarmth  of  the  place  were  essential  for  a  time  be- 
fore starting  on  the  homeward  journey  with  her  laden 
basket. 

Among  the  men  present,  when  she  entered,  was  a  knot 
of  rough- looking  soldiers,  who  had  impressed  her  most  dis- 
agreeably. They  had  stared  at  her  a  few  moments,  winked 
at  each  other,  and  then  to  her  relief,  departed. 

As  soon  as  she  felt  equal  to  the  effort,  she  started  home- 
ward ;  but  the  sun  was  already  declining  ;  the  sky  also  was 
ijecoming  overcast,  and  the  rising  wind  betokened  a  storm. 
By  the  time  she  reached  Butter  Hill,  the  snowflakes  began 
to  fly,  and  not  a  solitary  form  was  seen  on  the  dreary  ex- 
panse of  ice,  where,  in  the  morning,  travelers  had  appeared 
in  the  distance. 

Still,  this  did  not  trouble  her,  for  she  did  not  dread  a 
storm  as  much  as  she  feared  meeting  rude  fellows  coming  or 
going  from  the  garrisons  below.  Her  only  concern  was  lest 
the  snow  might  make  her  progress  dangerous,  by  covering 
the  occasional  air-holes  that  almost  always  occur  in  the  ice 
among  the  Highlands. 

But,  imagine  her  dismay,  when,  on  passing  around  the 
point  of  a  mountain,  she  came  upon  a  group  of  soldiers, 
apparently  lying  in  wait  With  sickening  fear,  she  recog- 
nized in  them  the  ill-favored  fellows  she  had  seen  in  the 
store  at  New  Windsor. 


200  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

She  hesitated,  and  was  about  to  turn  back  ;  but  they,  with 
devilish  cunning,  seemed  to  give  her  no  heed. 

' '  I  have  naught  to  do  with  them,  nor  they  with  me, ' '  she 
thought ;  "  and  no  doubt  they  will  let  me  pass  without  a 
word." 

Indeed,  they  moved  out  toward  the  middle  of  the  river, 
as  if  intending  to  pursue  their  way  without  regard  to  her. 
This  gave  Vera  renewed  hope,  and  the  chance  to  keep  near 
the  shore  as  she  desired. 

When  she  reached  a  point  where  the  mountain  shelved 
perpendicularly  down  to  the  water,  rendering  its  ascent  im- 
possible, they  turned  sharply  on  her,  one  shouting  brutally, 

"  So  ho  !  ye' re  the  white  witch  o'  the  mountains,  are  ye  ? 
But  the  divil  himself  can't  help  ye  now,  'les  ye  fly  up  the 
rocks. ' ' 

Vera  gave  the  precipice  a  despairing  glance  :  even  she 
could  not  scale  it.  There  was  no  chance  for  aught  save 
flight ;  and,  for  a  few  moments,  she  made  desperate  efforts 
to  escape,  once  or  twice  barely  eluding  a  grimy,  outstretched 
hand. 

Notwithstanding  her  wonderfully  quick  movements,  and 
the  abrupt  turns  which  she  was  able  to  make  on  the  smooth 
ice  by  the  aid  of  her  staff,  they  were  gradually  hemming  her 
in  toward  the  bluff.  A  few  yards  to  the  south,  and  near 
the  land,  she  saw  a  small  air-hole  with  open  water,  and  at 
once  formed  the  desperate  purpose  to  lead  her  pursuers  so 
near  it  that  they  would  fall  in  ;  or  else,  if  failing  in  that,  to 
find,  herself,  a  refuge  in  death  beneath  the  ice.  She  ran  to 
its  perilous  edge,  and  then,  by  means  of  her  staff,  turned 
short  toward  the  shore.  Her  nearest  pursuer  was  so  intent 
on  grasping  his  victim,  that  he  did  not  see  the  danger  in 
time  and  fell  in. 

This  created  a  diversion  in  favor  of  Vera,  and  two  of  her 
pursuers  stopped  to  help  their  comrades,  but  the  remaining 


"  THE  WHITE  WITCH  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS,"  201 

three  were  adjured,  with  oaths  and  curses,  to  "  head  her  off 

up  agin  the  mountain." 

"  May  the  divil  fly  away  with  me  if  I  don't  beUeve  she  is 
a  witch,"  cried  one  of  the  ruffians. 

Vera  had  now  reached  a  place  where  there  was  a  break  in 
the  precipice  facing  the  river,  the  rock  making  a  sharp  angle, 
and  receding  from  the  water  a  few  feet ;  and  then  it  made 
another  angle  and  trended  away  toward  the  southwest,  leav- 
ing an  increasingly  wide  margin  between  the  precipitous 
bluff  and  the  river.  Despairing  of  escape  on  the  ice,  Vera 
had  the  hope  that  by  springing  ashore  she  could  make  her 
way  along  this  margin,  and  so  up  among  the  hills. 

But  the  tide  was  out,  and  huge  cakes  of  ice  were  piled 
among  the  rocks  where  she  attempted  to  reach  the  land  ; 
slipping  on  one  of  these,  she  fell,  and  was  delayed,  seem- 
ingly, a  fatal  moment.  Two  of  the  men  sprang  ashore  south 
of  her,  thus  cutting  off  escape  along  the  base  of  the  cliffs, 
while  one  stood  on  the  ice  behind  her. 

"We've  got  her  now!"  they  cried,  with  horrid  joy; 
"  she's  just  druv  into  a  corner  o'  the  rocks,  and  must  go 
through  'em  to  get  away." 

**  Two  on  ye  keep  her  there,  then,  and  t'other  come  and 
help  us  git  Barney  out.  I'm  afeerd  he'll  droon.  The 
cussed  ice  breaks  wid  us,  and  he's  gittin'  could  and  numb- 
loike." 

Vera  gave  a  swift  glance  and  a  sobbing  prayer  to  Heaven, 
and  then  turned  toward  the  granite  rocks  that  beetled  above 
her  head,  to  see  if  there  was  the  faintest  possibility  of  escape. 
With  a  thrill  of  hope,  she  saw  crevices  in  the  inner  angle  of 
the  rock,  and  from  one  of  these,  far  above  her  head,  a  bush 
was  growing.  Here  was  her  only  chance.  Availing  herself 
of  the  moment' s  respite  given  by  her  pursuers  in  their  solici- 
tude for  their  half-drowned  companion,  she  planted  her  long 
Staff  among  the  loose  stones,  and,  by  its  aid,  steadied  her- 


20«  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

self  up  the  almost  perpendicular  rock,  till  she  r^ched  tiie 
bush.  It  bore  her  weight,  and  seemed  like  a  helping  hand. 
Fear  lent  her  wings,  and,  by  the  aid  of  the  shrabbery,  she 
reached  a  point  not  quite  so  steep,  where  the  angle  in  the 
precipice  turned  off  toward  the  river  somewhat,  and  she  was 
able  to  climb  with  more  security  and  hope. 

All  this  had  transpired  in  a  moment  of  time,  while  the 
eyes  of  the  ruffians  had  been  turned  toward  the  one  of  their 
number  struggling  in  the  water.  Having  pulled  him,  moFS 
dead  than  alive,  out  upon  tiie  ice,  they  made  a  rush  f<x 
their  victim,  when,  to  their  unbounded  amazement,  th^ 
saw  her,  far  above  their  heads,  ascending  what  seemed, 
from  their  point  of  view,  the  perpendicular  face  of  the  rock. 
For  a  moment  they  could  only  stare  in  their  wonder. 
Then  one  of  the  men  whipped  out  a  pistol. 

"Don't  fire!"  cried  another,  "for  if  the  divil  hain't 
carryin'  her  up,  she'll  fall ;  an'  if  he  is,  the  ball' 11  come 
back  and  kill  yerseli." 

Fortunately  this  sage  advice  was  taken,  and,  a  second 
later.  Vera  had  followed  the  angle  in  the  rocks  to  the  sum- 
mit of  the  precipice,  and  was  at  least  fifty  feet  above  their 
heads.  From  this  point  the  ascent  was  easier  and  safer, 
although  still  very  difiicult  and  dangerous.  A&  every  mo- 
ment she  mounted  higher,  scaling  places  that  appeared  im- 
passable, a  superstitious  dread  crept  over  them,  and  they 
slunk  off  with  muttered  curses  to  the  opposite  shore  of  the 
river,  leaving  the  basket  where  Vera  had  dropped  it  The 
angels  that  had  charge  over  her,  lest  she  should  dash  her 
foot  against  a  stone,  were,  to  their  besotted  minds,  evil 
spirits,  though  certainly  less  malignant  than  themselves. 

As  she  sav/  them  depart,  she  sat  down  on  a  shelf  of  rock, 
panting  and  exhausted.  Night  was  near,  the  sky  overcast, 
and  the  snow  whirling  through  the  air.  The  great  mountain 
of  **  Cro'  Nest"  rose  between  her  and  the  cabin,  while,  from 
the  wide  rugged  valley  that  she  must  cross,  came  the  roar  of 


••  THE  WHITE  WITCH  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS.'    203 

the  wind  in  the  forest.  She  thought  not  of  these  dangers, 
however,  in  her  unbounded  gratitude  for  what  seemed  an 
almost  miraculous  escape.  There  on  the  bleak  mountain- 
side she  knelt,  and  poured  out  her  heart  to  God.  In  answer, 
there  came  to  her  a  feeling  of  safety,  a  sense  of  being  guarded, 
which  she  never  had  before.  With  a  distinctness  which 
made  them  seem  as  if  spoken,  the  inspired  words  came  into 
her  mind,  "  Fear  not  thou,  for  I  am  with  thee  :  Be  not  dis- 
mayed ;  for  I  am  thy  God  :  I  will  strengthen  thee  ;  yea, 
I  will  help  thee  ;  yea,  I  will  uphold  thee  with  the  right  hand 
of  my  righteousness." 

"  Oh  I"  she  cried,  stretching  out  her  arms  toward  heaven, 
"  Oh  that  God  would  take  me  home  to  mother  now  !  Why 
must  I  descend  into  this  dark  and  stormy  valley  ?" 

Again  the  voice  whispered  in  the  depths  of  her  soul, 
*'  The  Lord  is  thy  keeper  :  The  Lord  shall  preserve  thee 
from  all  evil  :  He  shall  preserve  thy  soul."  "  Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid." 

With  a  feeling  of  resignation  and  trust,  to  which  she  had 
long  been  a  stranger,  she  set  out  on  her  journey  of  several 
miles  through  a  rugged  and  unbroken  wilderness.  Her 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  mountains  enabled  her  to  go 
toward  her  home,  even  in  the  gathering  darkness,  with  as 
much  directness  as  the  almost  impassable  region  per- 
mitted ;  but  it  was  night  before  she  descended  the  hills  that 
sloped  toward  the  cabin.  She  began  to  think  that  her 
Strength  would  fail,  and  that  after  all  she  might  perish  ; 
but,  in  her  weariness  and  loneliness,  the  thought  brought 
peace  instead  of  fear.  Mechanically  she  tottered  on, 
scarcely  conscious  from  exhaustion,  until  she  reached  the 
valley  where  stood  her  home.  Summoning  all  her  failing 
energies  she  tried  to  gain  its  door,  but  in  vain.  The  utmost 
limit  of  endurance  had  been  reached,  but,  as  her  last  effort, 
before  sinking  on  the  ground  in  unconsciousness  she  cried, 

•♦Father  I  Gulal" 


S04  NBAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 
"the  black  witch  of  the  highlands." 

VERA'S  absence  had  not  caused  much  anxiety  to  the 
inmates  of  the  cabin.  They  were  both  so  wrapped 
up  in  their  own  strange  fancies  that  they  could  think  ol 
little  else,  and  it  was  not  unusual  for  her  to  return  from 
hunting  expeditions  after  nightfall.  They  were  so  preoccu- 
pied that  neither  of  them  noticed  that  the  light  fowling-piece 
was  in  its  accustomed  place. 

Throughout  the  entire  day,  Gnla  imagined  she  had  been 
hearing  voices,  and  even  the  winter's  cold  did  not  prevent 
her  from  leaving  the  door  of  her  little  kitchen  open,  that 
they  might  be  more  distinct.  While  busy  in  preparing  as 
good  a  supper  for  Vera  as  a  very  meagre  larder  permitted, 
she  would  often  go  to  the  door,  and  listen  intently,  not  for 
the  footsteps  of  the  young  girl,  but  for  the  strange  echoes 
that,  in  her  disordered  mind,  came  from  her  tropical  home. 

And  she  was  thus  listening,  when  Vera's  cry  reached  her. 
In  great  excitement  she  said, 

"  Dare,  dare,  dat  a  voice  sure.  P'raps  I'se  gwine  home 
to-night.  I'se  a-coming,"  and  she  hobbled  down  the  glen 
as  fast  as  her  age  permitted,  till  her  feet  struck  against  the 
poor  girl's  unconscious  body.  Stooping  down,  she  felt  of 
the  unexpected  obstacle,  and  then,  in  a  shrill  scream,  called, 

*'  Mas'r  Brown,  come  quick  !  Missy  Vera  'pears  like 
she's  dead." 

The  father  hastened  to  the  spot,  and  between  them  they 
bore  her  into  the  cabin. 


••  THE  BLACK  WITCH  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS."    205 

"  Is  she  dead  ?"  asked  the  man  in  a  husky  whisper. 

' '  Dunno  ;  allers  been  afeard  she'  d  git  home  afore  me. 
De  strong  stuff  in  dis  bottle  did  her  mudder  good  ;  I'll  put 
a  little  in  her  mouf,"  and  Gula  moistened  Vera's  lips  with 
the  remnant  of  the  brandy,  and  was  comforted  by  seeing  the 
spasmodic  effort  to  swallow. 

"  She  was  a' most  home,"  soliloquized  Gula  ;  "  and  it's 
orful  cruel  in  me  to  bring  her  back  ;  but  I  couldn't  let  her 
go  afore  me." 

"  O  God  !  if  there  is  a  God  !  save  my  child  !"  cried  the 
father  in  agony.  "What  have  I  become,  to  leave  her  so 
exposed  .''' '   and  he  bent  over  her  in  remorseful  terror. 

Slowly  Vera  revived  to  consciousness,  and  was  at  last  able 
to  give  them  a  smile  of  recognition. 

' '  Where  have  you  been  ?  What  has  happened  V '  asked 
her  father  eagerly. 

She  shuddered,  shook  her  head,  and  said  faintly,  *'  Not 
now.      I  can't  tell  you  now." 

At  Gula's  urgent  request,  she  took  a  little  food  and  some 
more  of  the  brandy,  and  then  sank  into  a  deep  sleep,  which 
lasted  until  the  sun  was  shining  into  the  casement.  Gr< 
awaking,  she  found  her  father  watching  her  with  the  most 
intense  anxiety.  In  the  hope  of  arousing  him  from  his 
morbid  condition,  she  told  him  the  truth,  and  the  last  rem  • 
nants  of  the  man  and  parent  flashed  up  in  his  soul. 

His  face  became  ashen  in  its  hue,  and  again  he  exclaimed 
in  agony,  "  Great  God  I  what  have  I  become  ?" 

Then  he  seized  his  rifle,  and  started  for  the  scene  of  Vera'a 
peril,  with  the  half-crazed  hope  of  finding  her  assailants  stilt 
there.  After  a  time  he  returned  with  Vera's  basket,  and 
commenced  restlessly  pacing  the  cabin  floor,  muttering  deep 
curses  on  the  caitiffs  who  were  beyond  the  reach  of  his 
vengeance. 

"  Father,"  said  Vera  piteously,  "  won't  you  lake  care  of 


2o6  NEAR    TO  nature: S  HEART. 

US?  won't  you  be  your  old  self,  as  I  remember  you  when 
a  little  child  ?  It  may  be  long  before  I  am  able  to  go  out 
again,  and  I  ought  not  to  go  at  all." 

"  I  will,  my  child,  I  will,"  he  replied.  "  Would  to  God 
I  had  never  been  born  !" 

"  O  father  !  be  a  brave  man.  Do  as  Mr.  Saville  wished, 
and  all  will  yet  be  well." 

"  I  will,  my  child  ;  I  will  remove  you  and  Gula  to  a 
place  of  safety,  and  then  join  the  army." 

"  Act  now,  father,  act  at  once." 

*'  I  will— soon." 

For  a  few  days  he  made  desperate  efforts  to  throw  off  the 
incubus  that  was  crushing  body  and  mind,  and  supplied  the 
household  with  abundance  of  game. 

After  a  few  days  of  perfect  rest,  Vera's  healthful  frame 
quite  recovered  from  its  terrible  strain  ;  but  there  remained 
in  her  eyes  a  troubled,  frightened  expression.  Her  mind 
was  constantly  dwelling  on  the  strange  epithet  that  the 
ruffians  had  applied  to  her.  Why  did  they  call  her  the 
*'  white  witch  of  the  Highlands  ?"  and  what  did  they  mean 
by  this  term  ?  A  vague  sense  of  danger  oppressed  her,  and 
a  fear  lest  their  seclusion  was  causing  people  to  imagine 
evil  concerning  them. 

This  surmise  was  not  long  in  being  verified,  for  spring 
had  scarcely  opened,  before  an  oflScer  with  a  squad  of  men 
marched  to  their  door  one  morning. 

"  I  wish  to  see  a  man  named  Brown,"  was  the  prompt 
request. 

Nerving  himself  for  an  ordeal  that  was  terrible,  her  father 
came  to  the  door,  and  said  haughtily, 

••I  am  he." 

*'  I  am  directed,  sir,  to  inform  you  that  you  are  suspected 
of  disloyalty  to  the  American  cause,  and  of  being  in  the 
employ  of  the  enemy.     As  there  are  no  definite  charges 


"  THE  BLACK  WITCH  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS,'*  t&l 

against  you,  and  as  Mr.  Saville  once  spoke  in  yourfavOT, 
you  are  not  to  be  arrested  on  this  occasion.  But  your  pres- 
ence is  no  longer  desired  in  the  vicinity  of  the  forts,  and  it 
is  requested  that  you  leave  this  region  before  the  campaign 
opens.  If  after  two  weeks  you  are  here  and  can  give  no 
satisfactor}'  account  of  yourself,  you  will  be  arrested  and  put 
in  confinement." 

The  terrified  man  could  scarcely  retain  sufiicient  com- 
posure to  bow  in  silent  acquiescence ;  but,  as  the  officer 
was  taming  away,  Vera  exclaimed, 

*'  Indeed,  sir,  we  are  loyal     You  do  my  father  injustice.'' 

"  Let  him  be  prompt  in  proving  it  then,"  was  the  stem 
response  ;  then  came  the  word  of  command,  "  Right  about 
face  ;  march,"  and  they  were  gone. 

Vera  thought  that  she  recognized  among  the  soldiers  the 
malignant  face  of  the  wretch  who  had  narrowly  escaped 
drowning  in  his  reckless  pursuit  of  her  upon  the  ice.  She 
was  right  At  first,  the  ruffians  had  kept  quiet,  fearing  lest 
Vera  should  report  their  conduct,  and  they  be  severely  dealt 
with.  But  the  man  in  question  vowed  vengeance,  and  was 
so  besotted  in  his  ^otism  and  depravity  as  to  feel  that  he 
had  good  cause  to  punish  one  who,  in  escaping  his  brutality, 
had  involved  him  in  great  peril. 

He  was  one  of  Captain  Molly's  satellites,  and  she  had 
soon  beguiled  from  him  the  story,  but  embellished  and 
changed  somewhat  to  suit  their  interests.  The  worst  ol 
villains  do  not  like  to  portray  themselves  in  their  true  colors. 

"  She  is  a  witch^  indade,"  concluded  the  irate  ruffian ; 
*'  for  nary  a  one  that  the  divil  didn't  help  could  have  walked 
right  up  straight  rocks.  But,  by  the  holy  poker,  I'll  pay 
her  off  for  that  drooning  she  guv  me. ' ' 

The  story  of  Vera's  scaling  the  precipice  s|xead  rapidly 
among  the  ignorant  and  superstitious  members  of  the  garri- 
son, over  whom  Molly  ruled,  and  became  positive  {hxwC 
Roe— VIII-J 


2o8  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

that  the  innocent  maiden,  as  well  as  old  Gula,  was  in  close 
league  with  the  Evil  One, 

*'  Let  us  go  over  and  roast  them  out  some  day,"  was  a 
proposal  often  made,  and  once  or  twice  in  danger  of  being 
carried  out ;  for  the  discipline  of  the  fort  was  not  severe, 
and  the  men  were  often  permitted  to  be  absent. 

But  Molly  was  shrewd  enough  to  counsel  prudence. 
Larry  had  cautioned  her  that  Saville  was  the  "  very  divil 
himself"  when  angry;  and  she  remembered  his  threat. 
Though  she  had  not  seen  or  heard  anything  of  him  lor  a 
long  time,  he  might  return.  Besides,  Molly,  although 
capable  of  any  amount  of  wicked  gossip,  had  too  much 
humanity  to  face  its  consequences.  She  liked  to  scatter 
jSrebrands  and  arrows  recklessly,  but  did  not  enjoy  seeing 
the  wounds  and  suffering  ;  and  there  was  woman  enough  in 
her  nature  to  shrink  from  the  deeds  of  cruelty  and  violence 
which  she  foresaw  would  occur,  did  the  vindictive  Barney 
lead  a  band  of  kindred  spirits  against  the  cabin.  So  she 
tried  to  satisfy  his  revenge  by  inducing  him  to  throw  out 
hints  that  "  Brown  was  a  Tory,  a-watchin'  the  garrisons." 
This  story  the  officers  took  up  promptly,  and  Barney  was 
asked  for  definite  proof.  But  Molly  had  told  him  not  to 
say  anything  with  Certainty,  but  to  abound  in  suspicions  ; 
so  the  authorities  concluded  that,  as  there  had  been  consid- 
erable doubt  about  the  man,  they  would  compel  him  either 
to  join  the  service,  or  to  remove  from  a  region  where,  if  he 
were  so  inclined,  he  could  be  very  useful  to  the  enemy. 
Thus,  the  evil  consequences,  which  even  the  dead  wife  had 
foreseen,  occurred,  and  worse  dangers  threatened. 

As  the  officer  departed  with  his  squad,  Vera  turned  to  her 
father  with  the  purpose  of  entreating  him  to  follow  at  once, 
and  enlist  in  the  army.  But,  after  one  glance,  all  hope 
died.  It  almost  appeared  as  if  he  were  shrinking  and 
shriveling  away.      He  tottered  back  to  his  dusky  corner,  as 


"  THE  BLACK  WITCH  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS:'  209 

seemingly  scarce  able  to  walk.     In  a  trembling  whisper,  he 
said, 

"  Vera,  we  must  fly  at  once." 

"Fly  where?"  she  answered  desperately.  "Are  we 
birds,  that  we  can  take  wing  in  a  moment,  and  live  without 
shelter?     O  God  !  is  Thy  mercy  clean  gone  forever?" 

"  There  isn't  any  God,"  said  her  father  with  sudden  and 
vindictive  passion  ;  "  there  is  only  a  devil.  Witness  my 
wife's  grave  yonder ;  witness  your  unmerited  suffering ; 
and,  chief  of  all,  witness  myself.  I  dare  not  live — I  dare 
not  die.  I  have  but  one  vile  impulse,  and  that  is  to  hide  ; 
and  hide  I  will,  where  no  human  eye  shall  see  me  again. 
I  know  of  a  wild  gorge  in  these  mountains  that  I  believe 
untrodden  by  any  foot  save  mine.  Before  your  moth(?r 
died,  I  built  a  hut  there  for  a  refuge,  if  the  worst  came  to 
the  worst.  Last  fall  I  repaired  it,  and  made  it  stronger. 
No  one  knows  of  its  existence,  for  this  is  the  first  that  I  have 
spoken  of  it.     Come,  we  will  go  at  once." 

Vera  sank  into  a  chair,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  As  he  saw  her  grief,  he  relented  somewhat,  and 
said, 

"  Well,  we  will  not  go  till  to-morrow.  They  gave  us  a 
little  time. 

"  If  we  are  to  go,  let  us  go  at  once,"  said  Vera  despair- 
ingly. '  *  But  is  there  no  way  out  of  this  darkness,  no  es- 
cape from  this  terrible  isolation  which  is  destroying  us  all  ? 
I  fea:  I  shall  go  mad  myself. 

"  No,"  said  her  father,  with  the  gloom  of  the  most  hope- 
less fatalism  in  his  tone  and  manner  ;  "  there  is  no  escape, 
and  there  is  darkness  all  the  way  on  forever  more.  You  are 
in  the  grip  of  the  same  awful  destiny  as  myself.  I  am  mad, 
and  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  know  that  I  am.  I  can  see  my 
mad  self,  and  can  see  my  former  and  nobler  self  when  I  was 
flane,  and  all  day  and  ail  night  I  sit  and  compare  the  two. 


2IO  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

I  expect  you  will  become  like  me,  for  I  have  been  a  curse  to 
myself  and  all  bound  to  me.  But  I  will  go  where  I  can 
never  see  another  soul,  and  the  curse  will  die  out  with  us." 

"  But,  father,  have  you  no  pity  for  me  ?" 

"  Pity  !  ^  pity  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Don't 
I  know  that  we  are  both  in  hell  ?  I  shall  pity  you  forever, 
but  what  good  will  that  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  hush  !"  said  Vera,  shuddering.     **Sayno  more." 

Until  late  that  night,  she  prayed  and  questioned  God  as 
to  her  duty.  Would  it  not  be  better  to  go  to  the  com- 
mander of  the  garrison,  and,  throwing  herself  on  his  mercy, 
declare  that  her  father  was  no  longer  responsible  for  his 
actions  ?  And  yet  each  time  she  had  sought  to  make  her 
way  alone  out  into  the  world,  she  had  been  met  by  experi- 
ences that  caused  her  womanly  nature  to  shrink  with  inex- 
pressible fear. 

"  Is  there  only  one  true,  kind  man  in  the  world?"  she 
gi'oaned  in  bitterness. 

At  last,  she  concluded  that  her  father,  in  his  present 
mood,  would  not  remain  near  the  dwellings  of  others  ;  and 
that,  if  she  tried  to  compel  him  to  do  so,  he  would  v;ander 
off  by  himself,  and  perish  in  the  forest.  She  also  saw  the 
difficulty  of  accounting  for  his  condition  of  mind,  for,  as  he 
said,  he  was  both  sane  and  insane.  It  would  become  evi- 
dent to  all  that  his  gloom,  fear,  and  remorse  had  their  dark 
source  in  guilt  of  some  kind.  He  would  not  explain  ;  she 
could  not ;  and  thus  mystery  and  her  twin  sister,  suspicion, 
would  ever  follow  them  with  pointing  fingers,  till  even  she 
might  be  glad  to  hide  in  the  depths  of  the  mountains. 

She  recalled  her  mother's  words  in  regard  to  her  father  : 
*'  You  will  have  to  be  his  guardian  and  protector  more  truly 
than  he  yours.  Be  very  tender  and  patient  with  him  for 
my  sake." 

*'  I  will  go  with  him  to  his  mountain-gorge,"  concluded 


•'  THE  BLACK  IVITCH  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS."  2II 

she,  *  *  although  it  is  the  same  as  being  buried  alive.  Mr. 
Saville  will  never  find  me  there,  and  I  have  now,  in  sad 
truth,  lost  my  only  friend.  * ' 

Again  a  comforting  and  reassuring  voice  spoke  in  the 
depths  of  her  soul,  ' '  Commit  thy  way  unto  the  Lord  ;  trust 
also  in  Him,  and  He  shall  bring  it  to  pass." 

There  sprang  up  a  sudden  hopefulness  within  her  heart, 
that  God,  in  His  own  time  and  way,  would  break  down  the 
barriers  that  rose  between  them  and  their  own  kind,  and 
that  He  would  guide  Saville  to  their  hidden  retreat  An 
impression,  which  soon  became  a  conviction,  that  it  would 
be  best  and  safest  to  leave  all  to  Him,  brought  rest  to  hef 
mind,  and  she  slept  until  her  father  summoned  her  in  the 
morning. 

After  an  early  meal,  they  made  up  two  packages,  contain- 
ing tools,  bedding,  some  food,  and  cooking  utensils,  and 
taking  their  guns,  started  for  the  secluded  hut,  which,  after 
all,  was  not  so  distant  as  it  was  inaccessible,  and  apart  from 
all  the  mountain  roads  and  paths.  It  was  their  plan  to 
spend  two  or  three  days  in  repairing  and  putting  it  in  the 
best  condition  possible,  before  removing  thither  old  Gula 
and  the  household  furniture. 

But,  in  their  absence,  the  elements  of  evil  were  at  work, 
and  poor,  pagan  Gula  had  another  experience  with  Chris* 
tians,  upon  whose  profane  lips  was  continually  the  name  of 
the  God  whom  she  had  learned  to  associate  with  deeds  of 
fiendish  cruelty. 

The  ruflian,  Barney,  had  accompanied  the  officer,  and 
heard  the  order  which  would  soon  make  the  little  cabin 
tenantless.  But  this  did  not  satisfy  his  malignant  spirit ; 
and  so,  one  afternoon,  when  heated  with  liquor,  he  pro- 
posed to  a  few  kindred  villains  that  they  should  go  and  hurry 
the  departure  of  the  witches.  By  reason  of  their  super- 
stitious fears,  the  others  were  rather  relucia&t ;  but  he  stimu^ 


21 1  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

lated  them  up  to  the  reckless  point  by  fiery  potations  from  a 
stolen  bottle  of  rum.  They  doubted  Captain  Molly's  ac- 
quiescence in  their  action,  and  so  did  not  inform  her  ;  but, 
on  one  pretext  or  another,  obtained  a  brief  leave  of  absence 
from  their  officers. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they  reached  the 
vicinit}'  of  the  cabin.  They  approached  warily,  for  Brown 
had  the  reputation  of  being  savage  and  dangerous.  At  last 
they  made  a  rush  for  the  two  doors,  having  already  had  ex- 
perience of  Vera's  quickness  in  flight  But,  to  their  sur- 
prise, not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen.  They  looked  cautiously 
in  every  place  where  one  could  be  concealed  in  the  main 
room  and  kitchen,  with  their  weapons  ready,  but  there  was 
no  trace  of  their  victims.  Then  Barney  and  two  others  of 
the  most  reckless  of  the  gang  went  up  the  covered  way  to 
Vera's  little  room  ;  and  beastly  satyrs  of  Grecian  myth,  in 
the  grotto  of  a  nymph,  could  not  have  appeared  more  hide- 
ous and  devilish  than  these  caitiffs  in  that  refuge  of  maidenly 
purity  and  beauty.  Again,  in  after  days,  with  a  gratitude 
beyond  word.s,  Vera  thanked  God  that  she  was  absent.  Her 
filial  loyalty  to  her  father  had  brought  unspeakable  reward. 

The  ruffians  were  now  convinced  that  the  occupants  of 
the  cabin  had  fled,  and  with  sacrilegious  hands  they  de- 
stroyed, pillaged,  and  defaced,  till  their  attention  was  diverted 
by  a  loud  shout  from  one  of  their  number  who  had  ascended 
the  ladder  to  peer  into  the  little  loft.  Here  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Gula,  cowering  in  the  remotest  corner,  and  was 
now,  in  brutal  glee,  dragging  her  down  to  his  companions, 
who  with  oaths  and  imprecations  gathered  around. 

The  aged  negress,  speechless  and  paralyzed  with  terror, 
was  as  limp  and  unresisting  in  their  hands  as  if  dead  ;  turn- 
ing, as  the  only  evidence  of  life,  her  wild,  horror-dilated 
eyes  from  one  to  another  of  her  persecutors,  who  were  to 
her  so  many  torturing  fiends. 


"  THE  BLACK  WITCH  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS:*  213 

••  Where  is  the  other  she-divil  ?  where  is  the  white  witch 
O*  the  Highlands  ?"  demanded  Barney.  "Speak,  or  we'll 
make  ye  swallow  coals  o'  fire." 

But  Gula's  unearthly  stare  was  his  only  answer. 

"  Tie  her  to  the  tree  there,  or  the  divil  may  carry  her  off 
in  spite  o'  us  ;"  and  they  hustled  the  poor  creature  out, 
and  did  his  bidding,  Gula  making  no  resistance,  and  utter- 
ing not  a  sound. 

"  Now  take  what  ye  want,  and  thin  set  fire  to  that  divil's 
nest  o' witches, "  continued  Barney,  who,  by  common  con- 
sent, was  leader  in  the  outrage. 

Gula's  eyes  dilated  with  increasing  terror,  as  she  saw  the 
cabin  speedily  wrapped  in  flames.  Then  the  demons  gath- 
ered round  her,  and  Barney  commenced, 

"  Now,  ye  ould  black  hag  o'  Satan,  tell  me  where  the 
white  witch  is  a-hidin',  or  I'll  roast  the  flesh  off  yer  bones." 

But  Gula  only  turned  upon  him  her  horror-stricken  stare. 

He  seized  a  firebrand,  and  held  it  scorchingly  near  her 
hand.      She  writhed,  but  would  not  speak, 

"  Here,  boys,  git  some  dhry  sticks,  and  put  'em  around 
her  feet.     Ye' 11  see  how  blue  she'll  burn. " 

"Hold  on,  Barney,"  said  the  others;  "don't  let  us  go 
tco  far.      Her  looks' 11  haunt  us  all  our  days  now.  " 

With  loud  curses  on  their  cowardice,  the  drunken  wretch 
began  to  carr}'  out  his  fiendish  cruelty  himself. 

Gula  at  last  seemed  to  realize  that  she  might  be  near  to 
death,  which  to  her  meant  return  to  kindred  and  ruda 
regality  in  her  far-away  home,  and  she  suddenly  broke  the 
silence,  thus  far  maintained,  by  a  weird,  shrill  cr>'  of  ecstasy, 
'  De  voices,  de  voices!  I'se  hear  you  plain.  I'se 
3,-comin'  nov.%  sure." 

The  ruffians  started  back  aghast. 

"  What  voices  '"   demanded  Barney. 

A  piercing  shnek  from  the  hill  west  of  them  was  the  an- 


214  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

swer.  Then  the  report  of  a  rifle  rang  out,  and  Barney  Ml 
dead  at  his  victim's  feet,  with  a  bullet  through  his  crtiel 
heart. 

His  companions  turned  in  precipitate  flight,  but  another 
yelled  with  pain  as  the  contents  of  Vera's  gun  reached  them. 

Marking  the  couree  of  their  fiight  with  blood,  they  reached 
their  boat  half  dead  from  fright  and  bruises,  and,  crossing 
to  the  garrison,  told  a  terrible  story  of  Tory  outrage.  A 
strong  party  was  sent  over  immediately  to  arrest  Brown  and 
the  *'  Tory  horde"  that  v/as  declared  to  be  with  him  ;  but 
nothing  was  found  save  the  smoking  embers  of  the  cabin, 
and  the  dead  body  of  the  ruffian  Barney,  which  was  brought 
over  to  the  island  and  buried. 

From  what  he  sav/,  however,  the  officer  in  charge  of  the 
expedition  suspected  that  there  might  be  two  sides  to  the 
story,  as  Barney  and  his  companions  were  known  to  belong 
to  that  human  scum  which  always  exists  in  every  army. 
Beyond  some  effort  made  to  discover  whether  Brown  still 
frequented  his  old  haunts,  nothing  further  was  done,  and 
the  affair  was  soon  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  the  opeR' 
iRg  campaign. 


A   DIRGE  ENDING  JOYOUS£.Y.  2\% 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

A    DIRGE    ENDING    JOYOUSLY. 

OUR  story  now  passes  over  an  interval  of  several  months. 
The  autumn  winds  of  early  September  were  again 
prophesying  of  winter  among  the  Highlands  ;  but  only  in 
plaintive  suggestion,  for  summer  yet  lingered  in  their  mild 
breath. 

As  the  sun  was  sinking  low  in  the  west,  on  a  certain  after- 
noon, a  form,  that  could  scarcely  be  recognized  as  that  of 
Vera,  were  it  not  for  the  old  wealth  of  golden  hair — but 
uncovered  now  by  the  jaunty  plumage  of  the  snowy  heron 
—might  have  been  seen  stealing  through  the  defiles  of  the 
hills  toward  the  river.  A  painful  timidity  characterized  her 
movements,  and  she  seemed  to  fear  her  own  shadow.  There 
';vere  traces  of  suffering  and  almost  famine  on  her  sunburnt 
face,  and  in  her  deep  blue  eyes  an  expression  akin  to  that 
of  some  helpless  animal  that  had  been  hunted  almost  to  the 
death.  Her  dress  was  in  tatters,  and  would  not  much  longer 
conceal  her  thin  form.  Instead  of  shoes,  rudely  constructed 
sandals  of  buckskin  protected  her  feet.  Her  frame  appeared 
shrunken  and  somewhat  feeble,  and  yet,  as  if  impelled  by  a 
powerful  motive,  she  made  her  way  rapidly,  although  fur- 
tively, along  a  path  which  no  one  save  herself  could  follow. 

As  she  reached  the  vicinity  of  her  old  home,  her  approach 
became  more  cautious  and  stealthy.  She  flitted,  like  some 
timid  creature  of  the  forest,  from  cover  to  cover,  till  she 
could  look  out  unperceived  on  the  little  glen  made  dear  by 
so  many  memories. 


sx6  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEARTi 

The  first  object  that  her  eyes  dwelt  on  was  the  grave  of 
her  mother,  and  she  seemed  to  dread  lest,  among  the  sad 
changes  occurring,  it  might  also  have  disappeared.  But 
the  mound  was  untrampled,  and  the  flowers  she  had  planted 
near  were  still  growing.  As  the  glen  seemed  as  lonely  as 
her  own  life,  she  ventured  from  the  thicket  to  the  shade  of 
the  elm,  where  rose  the  grassy  mound.  A  visit  to  this  grave 
had  become  the  poor  child's  best  earthly  solace,  and  the 
nearest  approach  to  comforting  companionship  Vvithin  her 
reach.  There  was  no  one  in  her  dreary  home  to  whom  she 
could  speak  of  the  sorrows  that  were  crushing  out  hope  and 
life  ;  but  here  she  could  imagine,  at  least,  that  her  mother 
listened  to  her  as  in  the  past. 

Becoming  satisfied  that  she  was  alone  in  the  sacred  place, 
her  furtive,  apprehensive  manner  passed  away,  and  she  gave 
herself  wholly  to  the  tender  memories  naturally  inspired. 
Leaning  her  head  on  the  grave,  as  she  had  upon  her 
mother's  bosom  when  a  child,  she  spoke  of  past  scenes  in 
tones  that  v.'ould  have  touched  the  most  callous.  Her  sen- 
tences were  fragmentary,  mere  indices  of  passing  thoughts. 
From  them  it  would  seem  that  her  hope  of  meeting  Saville 
again  had  almost  perished,  but  that  her  recollection  of  his 
kindness  was  of  such  a  character  as  to  be  in  harmony  with 
the  sacred  memories  of  her  mother. 

At  last,  with  a  wear)'  sigh,  she  saw,  from  the  deepening 
shadows  in  the  glen,  that  night  must  be  near.  She  clasped 
the  cold  earth  of  the  mound  in  close  embrace.  She  was  in- 
deed orphaned  and  alone,  when  the  pressure  of  her  heart 
against  a  grass-grown  grave  could  give  more  comfort  than 
aught  else. 

When  about  to  rise,  she  heard  footsteps,  and  she  hastily 
stole  into  the  thicket  from  which  she  had  first  issued,  and 
which  would  cover  her  flight  back  to  the  hills.  But,  though 
almost  fainting  with  alarm — such  had  become  her  weakness 


A   DIRGE  ENDING  JOYOUSLY,  217 

of  mind  and  body — a  faint  hope  stayed  her  fleet  steps  till 
she  could  obtain  one  glimpse  of  the  intruder. 

There  was  something  in  the  distant  outline  of  the  tall  form 
that  was  strangely  familiar.  But,  as  the  stranger's  rapid 
advance  revealed  his  face,  she  sank  upon  the  ground  over- 
whelmed with  her  feelings.  It  was,  indeed,  the  friend  and 
brother  whom  she  had  mourned  as  lost,  and  he  was  appar- 
ently as  unchanged  as  on  the  day  she  last  saw  him.  Was 
his  presence  actual,  or  was  it  merely  a  vision  of  her  over- 
wrought and  morbid  mind  ?  She  scarcely  dared  to  move  or 
breathe,  and  feared  lest  the  wild  throbbing  of  her  heart 
would  break  the  illusion. 

And  yet  he  was  so  real,  he  could  not  be  a  phantom  ;  his 
Step  was  not  ghost-like,  but  struck  the  ground  firmly. 

Now  she  saw  the  expression  of  his  face — the  perplexity— 
the  alarm,  the  trouble,  and  distress  depicted  there — as  the 
desolation  of  the  glen  became  apparent  He  went  to  the 
Stone  step  that  had  led  to  the  threshold  of  the  cabin,  and 
peered  into  the  charred  ruins,  as  if  he  dreaded  discovering 
there  traces  of  its  inmates.  He  next  ascended  hurriedly  to 
the  place  where  Vera's  grotto-like  apartment  had  been,  but 
the  scrutiny  of  the  ashes  gave  no  confirmation  of  the  fear 
that  apparently  had  risen  in  his  mind. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow 
and  eyes,  as  if  all  were  to  him  a  vision  which  he  would 
gladly  dispel.  He  looked  up  and  down  the  glen  till  his 
eye  rested  on  the  elm  under  which  was  the  grave,  ai;d  he 
approached  it  rapidly,  as  if  hoping  to  find  there  something 
that  would  lead  to  the  disco^'ery  of  those  he  sought. 

"  She  must  be  living,"  he  said  aloud,  "  for  here  are  the 
proofs  of  her  care  and  taste.  Indeed,  from  the  marks  upon 
the  grass,  I  should  think  that  some  one  had  been  here 
to-day." 

Again  he  looked  up  and  down  the  glen,  in  the  hope  of 


2lS  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

seeing  something  or  some  one  that  could  explain  the  mys- 
tery. The  poor  girl,  who  was  but  a  few  feet  away,  seemed 
under  a  strange  paralysis.  She  tried  to  speak,  but,  as  if 
dreaming  in  very  truth,  though  her  lips  moved,  there  was 
no  sound. 

But,  as  Saville  sat  down  upon  a  rock,  and,  taking  out 
his  flute,  commenced  playing  the  same  dirge  which  once 
before  had  summoned  her  to  him  and  kept  her  heart  from 
breaking,  the  stony  spell  that  bound  her  was  broken.  Tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"  '  I  know  a  bank,'  "  she  faltered  ;  then,  springing  from 
her  concealment,  she  knelt  at  his  feet,  as  one  might  do  who 
sought  deliverance  from  some  pressing  danger. 

"Vera!"  he  exclaimed,  raising  her  up.  "My  friend, 
my  little  sister  !  what  has  happened  ?  What  has  changed 
you  so  ?' ' 

But,  for  some  moments,  her  tears  and  sobs  were  his  only 
answer.  He  gently  seated  her  on  a  rock  beside  him,  and 
held  her  hand,  while  stroking  her  head  in  gentle  caresses, 
accompanied  by  equally  tender  and  soothing  words. 

' '  My  poor  little  sister,  it  is  plain  that  much  has  happened^ 
and  that  you  have  suffered  deeply,  since  I  saw  you  last." 

"  But  thank  God,  thank  God  !  you  are  not  dead — yoa 
have  not  forgotten  me,"  she  was  able  at  last  to  say  brokenly. 

"  You  may  indeed  take  all  the  comfort  you  can  out  of 
these  facts, ' '  he  replied  cheeringly.  ' '  I  never  had  a  better 
prospect  of  living,  and  there  was  never  less  danger  of  my 
forgetting  you.  So  cease  your  trembling,  little  one,  and 
dry  your  tears.  I  am  again  stationed  at  Fort  Montgomery, 
and  can  see  you  often,  as  in  old  times.  Now  tell  me  whaS 
has  happened— no,  first  tell  me  where  you  live,  for  it  is 
almost  night,  and  v/e  can  talk  on  our  way  thither. 

"  Oh  !"  exclaimed  Vera,  "  in  the  joy  of  seeing  you,  I 
have  forgotten  all  else.     The  wretched  little  hut^  which  I 


A  DIRGE  ENDING  JOYOUSLY.  tl^ 

cannot  call  home,  is  miles  away.  You  can't  go  with  me 
there.  The  path  is  loo  rough  and  tangled  for  aught  save  a 
mere  creature  of  the  forest,  as  I  have  become. ' ' 

Then,  for  the  first  time  conscious  of  her  tattered  and  for- 
lorn dress,  and  her  bare  and  brier-torn  ankles,  she  turned 
away  with  a  burning  blush,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone, 

"  I  am  glad  night  is  near,  that  its  darkness  may  cover 
me.  I  wonder  at  your  kindness,  for  I  looked  into  a  mirror- 
ing pool  on  my  way  hither,  and  saw  my  poor,  miserable 
self  as  you  now  see  me.  What  must  I  seem  to  you,  who 
have  seen  the  best  of  the  world  .?" 

"Vera,"  said  Saville  gravely,  "did  not  your  mother, 
when  living,  hope  that  I  might  become  your  friend  r" 

"  Yes,"  said  Vera,  with  fast-falling  tears. 

"  That  hope  has  been  fulfilled  ;  but,  were  I  only  a 
casual  stranger,  what  else  could  I  feel  for  you,  in  this  place, 
and  by  this  grave,  but  the  deepest  sympathy.?  You  may 
trust  me  then  without  fear  or  embarrassment,  because  of 
your  ragged  dress  and  braised  feet,  which  are  to  me  tha 
touching  proofs  of  your  misfortunes.  There  are  no  stronger 
claims  than  those  of  humanity,  and  unconsciously  you  assert 
these  in  a  way  to  make  them  most  sacred.  I  feel  that  yoa 
are  committed  to  my  charge,  and  that  nature  and  all-con- 
trolling destiny  constitute  me  your  brother  and  guardian. 
So,  rest  assured,  you  shall  lean  upon  my  arm  all  the  way  to 
your  mountain  hiding-place,  which,  I  fear,  is  little  better 
than  the  nests  of  the  birds,  which  are  open  to  the  sky." 

*'  But  the  way  is  longer  than  you  think." 

"  Will  it  seem  shorter  to  you  without  me.?  All  the  more 
reason  for  my  going.  Com.e,  little  sister  ;  I  have  a  v-nll  of 
my  own,"  and  he  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm. 

"  I  can  take  the  more  open  paths,  now  that  you  are  vn.'Cb. 
me,"  she  said,  with  sudden  gladness  in  her  tone. 

"  Yes,  any  you  like.     1  will  take  care  of  you." 


2  20  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

With  a  sigh  of  intense  relief,  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  what 
a  comfort  it  is  not  lo  be  oppressed  with  fear  every  moment. 
Constant  dread  was  becoming  a  habit  of  my  mind,  as  it  is 
with  father.  There  are  such  cruel  and  terrible  men  in  the 
world  ;  and  we  are  so  helpless,  and  are  the  objects  of  so 
much  suspicion,  that  concealment  and  flight  have  become 
our  only  safety  ;"  and,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  she 
told  him  of  her  own  and  Gula's  experience,  and  the  burn- 
ing of  the  cabin. 

**  When  we  saw  the  smoke,"  she"  said,  "  we  thought  it 
had  caught  fire  by  accident,  and  we  ran,  in  the  hope  of 
saving  something.  But.  Gula's  crv,  and  the  horrible  men's 
rough  voices,  soon  led  us  to  fear  the  worst.  I  was  afraid, 
at  first,  that  father  would  leave  old  Quia  to  her  fate,  for  often 
he  is  so  strangely  timid.  But,  for  a  few  moments,  he  seemed 
like  an  enraged  lion.  He  shot  the  leading  villain,  and  then, 
snatching  my  gun,  fired  again.  Only  their  rapid  flight  kept 
him  from  attacking  them  single-handed.  He  seemed  to 
think  they  were  the  same  ruffians  that  tried  to  catch  me  ; 
and,  from  what  old  Gula  said  afterward,  I  am  sure  they 
were.  Ever  since,  I  have  lived  in  a  state  of  terror  lest  they 
should  spring  out  upon  me." 

Her  tragic  story  was  often  interrupted  by  Saville's  excla- 
mations of  pity  and  anger  ;  and  when  she  described  her 
peril  upon  the  ice,  and  in  climbing  the  precipice,  she  ielt  his 
arm  tremble  beneath  her  hand. 

''  Vou  shall  be  amply  revenged,"  he  said  in  a  deep  tone, 
as  she  concluded. 

' '  Oh,  no, ' '  she  cried  pleadingly  ;  ' '  any  effort  to  avenge 
me  would  only  add  to  my  pain  and  fear.  Please  make 
these  dreadful  men  understand  that  father  is  loyal,  and  that 
Gula  and  I  are  not  witches.  How  came  they  ever  to  imag- 
ine such  a  thing  about  two  such  inoffensive  creatures  ?" 

"  That's  the  cursed  quality  of  superstition,"  he  muttered. 


A  DIRGE  ENDING  JOYOUSLY .  281 

**  The  less  reason  and   cause,  the   more  monstrous  and 
bigoted  the  belief." 

"  You  can  never  know  all  I  have  suffered  of  late,"  she 
said,  finding  much  comfort  in  his  strongly  manifested  sym- 
pathy. '*  We  often  do  not  have  enough  to  eat,  and  I  was 
beginning  to  hope  I  should  die  before  winter  came.  Father 
is  more  gloomy  and  taciturn  than  ever,  and  I  often  find  him 
looking  at  me  with  a  strange  pity  and  almost  horror  in  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  were  murdering  me  and  could  not  help  it 
His  looks  haunt  me.  Old  Gula,  too,  is  growing  more 
strange,  and  mumbles  unceasingly  of  her  unearthly  voices. 
Still  I  could  endure  all  this,  were  it  not  for  my  constant  and 
unspeakable  fear  lest  those  wicked  men  find  our  hiding- 
place,  or  spring  out  at  me  when  I  am  away  alone  among  the 
mounfains.  When  I  heard  your  step  this  evening,  I  came 
near  flying,  without  looking  back  (God  saved  me  from  ths*- 
at  least).  I  even  wake  out  of  my  sleep,  and  imagine  I  hear 
them  coming  with  their  dreadful  oaths.  Are  you  sure  you 
can  keep  them  away  .?" 

"  Yes,  Vera,  sure.  Poor  child  !  I  did  not  dream  it  pos» 
sible  that  misfortune  and  wrong  could  so  single  you  out. " 

"  What  you  say,"  she  continued,  in  an  awed,  frightened 
tone,  ' '  leads  me  to  speak  of  the  worst  trouble  of  alL 
Mother's  Bible  v/as  burned  in  the  cabin,  as  was  nearly  every- 
thing else.  I  have  tried  to  remember  its  teachings,  but  of 
late  they  seemed  slipping  from  my  mind.  Indeed,  I  ap- 
peared sometimes  to  be  forgetting  everything.  I  felt  as  if  I 
were  dwindling  to  nothing  in  body  and  mind,  and  a  great 
fear  has  at  times  chilled  my  heart  lest  death  should  be  just 
becoming  nothing.  When  we  first  came  to  our  hiding- 
place,  I  felt  that  it  was  ver)'  doubtful  whether  I  should  ever 
see  you  or  any  one  else  again,  and  I  gave  up  almost  ail 
hope  of  happiness  in  this  life.  But,  while  the  world  was  SO 
dark,  the  door  of  heaven  seemed  wide  open,  and  mothee 


222  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

Standing  in  its  light,  waiting  for  me.  For  a  long  time  this 
beautiful  vision  was  ever  before  me,  and  I  felt  like  a  traveler 
who  is  going  toward  his  home-light.  But  at  last  the  open 
door,  with  its  streaming  rays,  began  to  recede,  and  mother's 
form  to  grow  dim  ;  and  now  they  have  gone  so  far  away 
that  they  seem  like  that  faint  star  just  above  yonder  moun- 
tain. What  does  it  mean  .?  Has  God  forgotten  me .?  Is 
He  in  truth  taking  mother  far  away  into  heaven,  and  am  I 
becoming  so  much  like  the  poor,  timid  little  creatures  of 
the  woods,  that  I  shall  at  last  die  like  them,  and  become 
nothing  .-*     I  wish  you  could  explain  it  all  to  me." 

"  I  can,  my  poor  little  friend,  very  readily.-  When  one 
has  been  long  under  the  influence  of  trouble  and  solitude, 
and  especially  when  there  has  been  a  lack  of  nutritious  food, 
the  mind  becomes  morbid,  and  full  of  unnatural  fancies, 
just  as  the  night  is  full  of  strange,  monstrous  shadows,  which 
all  disappear  when  the  sun  rises.  The  sun  has  risen  for 
you,  and  all  these  strange  shadows  upon  your  mind  will 
soon  pass  away." 

*'  But  are  you  sure  that  God  never  forgets  any  of  His 
children,  though  they  are  weak  and  insignificant .?  It  is 
this  fear  that  troubles  me  most." 

"  Well,  Vera,  to  tell  you  a  truth,  which  you  would  have 
suspected  long  ago,  if  you  had  not  been  so  innocent,  I  do 
not  know  much  about  God.  I  think  you  had  better  try  to 
overcome  all  these  morbid  fancies,  of  which  you  have 
spoken,  in  a  new  and  hopeful  interest  in  your  present  life.  I 
promise  that  T  shall  never  forget  you,  and  will  try  to  make  it 
certain  that  you  shall  never  be  so  exposed  to  misfortune  again. 

At  first,  Vera  gave  him  a  troubled,  startled  look,  and  was 
silent  for  some  moments.  Then  he  felt  her  hand  tightening 
in  its  grasp  upon  his  arm,  as  if  the  thought  were  in  her 
mind,  "  If  God  is  failing  me,  I  must  cling  the  closer  to  this 
friend,  who  is  so  near  and  sympathetic." 


A   DIRGE  ENDING  JOYOUSLY.  223 

To  divert  her  mind,  he  told  her  of  his  experiences  during 
his  long  absence,  and  how  he  had  written  to  her,  and  had 
hoped  that  she  knew  about  his  Hfe  elsewhere,  while  he  re- 
mained ignorant  of  hers.  He  explained  how  very  uncertain 
letters  were  to  arrive,  even  along  the  regular  lines  of  travel. 
And  yet  his  heart  reproached  him  that  he  had,  in  some  de- 
gree, forgotten  her  in  his  manifold  duties  and  excitements, 
and  that  he  bad  not  made  greater  effort  to  learn  of  her  wel- 
fare, and  provide  for  her  safety. 

They  at  last  reached  a  point  where  they  must  leave  the 
comparatively  open  path  for  one  that  was  narrow,  precip- 
itous, and  often,  to  his  eye,  entirely  blocked  by  rocks  and 
tangled  undergrowth.  But  she  picked  out  a  way  for  him, 
where,  in  the  darkness,  none  appeared.  Toward  the  last, 
however,  her  movements  became  slow  and  feeble. 

"  Let  us  rest  awhile,"  he  said  ;  "  you  are  becoming  too 
wearied  to  stand,  almost." 

' '  I  am  sorry  to  say,  it  is  more  than  weariness,  Mr.  Saville. 
I  have  scarcely  tasted  food  to-day  ;  and  the  worst  of  it  is, 
I  fear  that  we  shall  have  little,  if  anything,  to  offer  you  in 
the  way  of  supper.     I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  troubles  me." 

"  And  are  you  forgetting  your  own  pangs  of  hunger  and 
consequent  weakness,  in  the  fear  that  you  may  not  have  a 
supper  for  one  who  dined  heartily  a  few  hours  ago?"  he 
asked,  taking  her  hand. 

"  But  I  am  accustomed  to  being  hungry,  and  you  ate 
not " 

"  My  poor  little  friend,  I  can  scarcely  realize  it  all.  If 
you  could  spread  a  banquet  before  me,  ray  heart  would  be 
too  full  to  permit  me  to  think  of  eating  to-night "  And  ths 
thought  passed  through  his  mind,  "  Can  this  maiden  and 
my  bigoted,  selfish  wife  belong  to  the  same  world  and 
race?" 

He  was  naturally  generous  and  sympathetic,  and  his  heart 


824  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

overflowed  with  pity  and  tenderness  for  the  lonely  girl,  whose 
thoughts  had  constantly  followed  him,  while  he  had  partially 
forgotten  her. 

He  now  insisted  on  her  pointing  out  the  way  ;  and  going 
before,  he  lifted  her  down  the  rocks  and  steep  places. 

"It  is  so  strange  to  be  petted  and  taken  care  of,"  she 
said,  with  a  low  laugh,  "  that  it  must  be  all  a  dream. " 

"Thanks  for  that  laugh,"  he  cried;  "it  is  the  first  I 
have  heard  from  }  ou,  but  I  shall  be  much  mistaken  if  it  is 
the  last.  If  I  can  carry  out  my  will,  this  is  your  last  dark, 
miserable  day. ' ' 

"  This  day  is  no  longer  dark  and  miserable,"  she  said 
promptly. 

".  How  is  that?"  he  asked,  "  It  is  night,  and  you  are 
both  hnngry  and  weary." 

"But  comforted  and  happy,"  she  added.  "The  only 
ache  that  I  cannot  endure  is  the  heart-ache,  and  your  com- 
ing has  cured  that 

Having  at  last  descended  into  the  wild,  secluded  valley, 
they  were  not  long  in  reaching  v/hat  Vera  had  called  with 
truth  "  a  wretched  little  hut." 


GULA   HJ^ARS  A    VERITABLE   VOICE.  225 


CHAPTER   XX. 

GULA  HEARS  A  VERITABLE  VOICE. 

WHEN  Vera  told  Saville  that  they  were  near  the  little 
cabin,  he  asked  why  no  Hght  appeared. 

"  We  live  literally  in  darkness  much  of  the  time,"  she  re- 
plied ;  "for  father  will  not  permit  a  light,  lest  its  rays  reveal 
our  hiding-place  ;  and  I  have  been  so  timid,  also,  that  I 
was  well  content  to  submit.  Please  wait  here,  and  I  will 
prepare  father  for  the  meeting." 

"  Is  it  possible,"  he  thought,  scanning  the  place  by  the 
light  of  the  rising  moon,  "  that  this  poor  little  hovel  has 
been  her  only  shelter  for  long  months  ?  Even  our  soldiers' 
huts  are  better  than  this." 

Vera  noiselessly  raised  the  latch,  saying,  at  the  same  time, 
in  a  quiet  tone,  "  It  is  I,  father." 

"  I  am  verj'  glad  you  have  returned,  for  I  was  beginning 
to  surmise  horrible  things.     What  has  kept  you  ?" 

"  I  met  an  old  friend." 

"  Met  an  old  friend  !     Who?" 

*'  Your  friend  as  truly  as  mine.  Can  you  not  think  who 
he  is  ?' ' 

"  Has  Mr.  Saville  returned,  and  is  he  indeed  friendly?" 
he  asked  eagerly. 

"  He  is  more  friendly  than  ever  ;  he  shall  speak  for  him- 
self.     Mr.  Saville  !" 

' '  O  Vera  !  you  have  not  brought  him  to  this,  our  only 
refuge  ?' '  cried  her  father  in  great  agitation.  ' '  I  fear  evil 
vrill  come  of  it.' ' 


326  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"No,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Saville,  cordially  taking  his 
hand  ;  "  good  and  only  good  shall  come  of  it.  I  am  here 
as  a  friend  to  you  both.  Besides,  I  bring  you  cheering 
tidings,  sir.  We  are  making  good  our  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence, v/hich  you  heard  over  a  year  ago,  and  have  now 
excellent  prospects  of  final  victory." 

The  fear- haunted  man  drew  a  long  breath,  and  then  said, 
'*  The  deed  has  now  been  done,  and,  since  you  are  here, 
we  will  treat  you  with  the  best  courtesy  we  can;  but  I  had 
hoped  no  living  soul  would  ever  discover  this  retreat." 

"  God  has  in  mercy  willed  it  otherwise,  father." 

"  God  forsooth  !"  he  responded  bitterly.  "  If  I  could 
hide  forever  from  Him,  I  might  hope  for  a  little  respite." 

"  We  have  not  a  chair  to  offer  you,"  he  continued,  turn- 
ing to  Saville.      "  Will  you  accept  of  this  rude  bench  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  most  content  in  faring  as  you  do,"  answered 
Saville,  in  the  frank,  cordial  manner  which  always  gives  con- 
fidence. '*  And  now,  I  pray  you,  sir,  sit  down  with  me, 
while  I  tell  you  of  the  progress  of  the  war.  Vera  has  re- 
lated enough  of  your  experience  to  fill  me  with  the  deepest 
sympathy  for  your  misfortunes.  At  the  same  time,  I  clearly 
foresee  brighter  days  in  store  for  you  both." 

Before  the  exile  was  aware,  Saville  held  him  completely 
absorbed  by  his  graphic  descriptions  of  the  battles  that  had 
cjccurred  during  his  long  absence.  Vera,  in  the  mean  time, 
disappeared,  and  nothing  was  seen  of  old  Gula. 

At  last  the  door  of  the  hut  was  opened  from  withouf,  and 
Vera  called,  "  Come,  Mr.  Saville,  to  my  banquet." 

"  Banquet !"  he  said,  laughing.  **  If  you  and  Gula  have 
prepared  a  banquet  to-night,  I  shall  be  ready,  also,  to  be- 
lieve you  are  witches,  or  good  fairies,  rather." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Everything 
has  turned  out  better  than  I  expected.    Father,  come  with  us." 

To  her  surprise  and  joy,  he  who  had  seemed  hopelessly 


GULA    HEARS    4    VERITABLE   VOICE.  227 

beyond  even  the  desire  of  seeing  or  speaking  to  a  fellow 
creature  again,  rose  hesitatingly,  and  followed  them. 

Taking  Saville's  hand,  with  the  freedom  of  a  child,  she 
led  him  to  a  grassy  plot  behind  the  cabin,  where,  in  the 
moonlight,  stood  a  rude  table 

"  I  much  feared,"  she  said,  "  that  we  should  have  noth- 
ing to  offer  you  to-night.  As  I  told  you  once  before,  we 
are  fed  as  the  ravens  are.  I  do  not  know  whether  they  ever 
go  supperless  to  bed,  but  we  do  sometimes.  To-night, 
however,  in  honor  of  your  coming,  two  young  partridges 
considerately  put  their  heads  into  my  snares,  and  there  they 
are  awaiting  you. ' ' 

"  Have  you  been  out  in  the  forest  after  them  since  yoiir 
return.?"   asked  Saville,  still  retaining  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  but  it  wasn't  very  far." 

"  And  have  you  not  had  anything  to  eat  yet  ?" 

"  I  eat  before  my  guest .?" 

"  Yes,  or  your  guest  will  be  most  pained  and  unhappy. 
See,  your  hand  trembles  from  weakness  ;  your  pulse  is 
rapid,  yet  feeble,  while  mine  is  strong  and  even  from  gener- 
ous living.  Can  you  think  that  I,  who  dined  heartily  but 
a  few  hours  since,  would  take  the  smallest  part  of  those 
dainty  morsels  which  you  need  to  keep  soul  and  body  to- 
gether t  Do  you  and  your  father  sit  down  upon  this  mossy 
rock,  while  I  carve  the  birds,  and  help  you,"  and  he  almost 
compelled  them  to  do  his  bidding.  Then  lifting  the  light 
table,  he  placed  it  before  them  so  that  they  could  not  well 
rise. 

"Now  you  are  my  prisoners/"  he  continued;  "and 
only  on  the  condition  of  your  making  a  good  supper,  shall 
I  permit  you  to  escape.' 

"  Hungry  as  I  am,  I  cannot  eat,  unless  you  share  the 
birds  with  us,"  persisted  Vera,  leaving  the  choice  bits  before 
her  untasted. 


228  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  queer  little  sister  ?  If  any  pain 
were  to  be  borne,  you  would  want  it  all,  I  warrant  you. 
Well,  I'll  take  a  wing." 

"  No,  that  may  portend  your  sudden  absence  again." 

•'  Where  is  Gula  ?"   he  asked  abruptly. 

'•  I'se  here,"  said  the  old  negress,  stepping  from  the  deep 
shadow  of  a  rock. 

•'  And  right  glad  I  am  that  you  are  still  here,"  said 
Savilie  cordially.  "  I  have  heard  how  badly  you  were 
treated,  but  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  you  all  now." 

"  Mas'r  Brown  fired  little  too  quick,  or  I'd  been  home 
now.  I  would  like  to  git  hcnic  afore  de  cold  winter 
come.  Tink  I  will,  for  de  voices  is  callin*  po'ful  strong 
lately." 

"  But  our  voices  will  call  on  you  more  strongly  to  stay 
with  us  ;  besides,  I  am  going  to  bring  a  lively  young  colored 
boy  to  help  you,  when  I  come  again.  Vera,"  he  said  in  a 
low  tone,  turning  to  the  young  girl,  "be  so  kind  as  to  let 
me  give  my  portion  to  this  poor  old  creature.  When  I 
come  again,  I  will,  in  truth,  be  your  submissive  guest." 

"  Well,"  said  Vera  laughing,  "  I  do  not  know  much 
about  the  world  ;  but  I  imagine  that  men  always  have  their 
own  way  in  it." 

'*  You  have  indeed  forgotten  your  Shakspeareif  you  think 
that.  But  I  am  much  interested  in  your  g}'psy  life.  Where 
were  these  birds  cooked  so  nicely  ?' ' 

"We  has  a  stone  fireplace  in  de  side  ob  de  hill,"  said 
Gula,  with  a  courtesy. 

"  Father  has  arranged  it  so  that  the  smoke  is  carried  off 
among  the  recks,  and  in  such  a  way  that  it  cannot  be  seen 
by  any  one  on  the  hills  around  us,"  added  Vera  ;  "  and 
the  cabin,  you  perceive,  is  quite  hidden  by  evergreens," 

It  was,  indeed,  even  from  them,  who  were  but  a  few  feet 
away. 


GULA   HEARS  A    VERITABLE  VOICE.  229 

"  AU  this  may  answer  in  summer,  but  not  in  winter," 
said  the  young  man  decidedly. 

"  I  doubt  whether  we  could  have  survived  the  winter," 
Vera  repHed  in  a  low  tone. 

"  How  quietly  you  speak  those  darkly  suggestive  words  !" 

"  It  was  my  best  hope,  till  you  came. " 

"  Thank  fortune,  my  coming  was  not  delayed." 

"  I  thank  God,"  added  Vera  reverently. 

"  Don't  mention  that  name,"  said  her  father  irritably. 
"  I  have  always  heard  it  oftenest  when  my  troubles  thick- 
ened. ' '  Then  to  Saville,  ' '  You  spoke  of  bringing  your 
colored  servant.      I  fear  it  will  not  be  safe,  sir. ' ' 

' '  I  will  give  you  my  personal  pledge  that  it  is  ;  and  when 
you  come  to  know  the  boy,  you  will  fear  no  harm  from 
him.  So  I  trust  you  will  leave  all  to  me,  for  I  can  provide 
for  your  safety  more  surely  than  you  can  yourself. " 

Mr.  Brown  acquiesced  so  far  as  to  be  silent. 

Saville  had  seen  much  of  the  world,  but  the  picture  made 
by  that  wild  mountain-gorge  and  the  little  group  before  him 
left  an  ineffaceable  impression  upon  his  memory.  Rugged, 
rocky  steeps  rose  on  either  side,  one  shimmering  in  the 
moonlight,  and  the  other  lying  in  the  deepest  shadow. 
Glades  and  vistas  opened  here  and  there,  with  strange  effect, 
among  the  giant  trees  of  the  valley.  The  closely  ranked 
cedars  and  hemlocks  concealed  every  vestige  of  the  little  log 
hut,  and  the  inmates,  as  they  then  appeared,  were  so  unlike 
ordinary  people,  that  he  felt  that  they  and  the  whole  scene 
were  more  like  _a  creation  of  the  fancy  than  a  part  of  the 
real  world.  But  to  him,  who  was  weary  of  the  platitudes 
and  hollovmess  of  conventional  life,  the  picture  had  an  un- 
speakable attraction. 

Old  Gula  stood  a  little  back  from  her  master  and  mistress, 
leaning  her  tall,  gaunt  form,  that  was  feeble  from  age  and 
kck  of  food,  against  one  of  the  granite  boulders  that  were 


330  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

scattered  thickly  at  the  base  of  the  mountain.  Her  wrinkled 
features  formed  as  elfish  and  unearthly  a  visage  as  could  well 
be  imagined. 

The  unbroken  rays  of  the  moon,  as  they  shone  full  on 
Vera's  father,  only  made  more  evident  what  a  wreck  he  had 
become.  His  face  was  haggard,  his  hair  unkempt,  and  his 
grizzled  beard  had  grown  to  enormous  proportions.  At 
times,  when  Saville  was  speaking  to  him,  he  had  almost  the 
bearing  of  a  finished  gentleman  ;  a  little  later,  he  wore  the 
look  of  a  frightened  animal,  furtively  devouring  its  food. 

Although  Saville,  with  almost  the  appreciation  of  an 
artist,  marked  the  other  features  and  accessories  of  the  pic- 
ture, his  eyes  constantly  reverted  to  Vera  with  increasing  in- 
terest. Having  finished  the  repast,  which,  after  all,  was 
very  meagre,  she  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and  Hs- 
tened  with  such  a  wistful,  intent  expression  in  her  face,  that 
it  was  difficult  for  him  to  dwell  merely  on  the  details  of  a 
past  campaign.     He  wished  to  comfort  and  reassure  her. 

He  now  had  opportunity  to  note  the  changes  that  had 
taken  place  in  her  appearance,  and  saw,  with  boding  anx- 
iety, how  frail  and  thin  she  was.  Her  sun- browned  face 
was  very  pale  in  the  moonlight,  and  more  suggestive  o! 
spirit  than  of  flesh  and  blood.  To  his  kindled  fancy,  her 
wealth  of  unconfined  hair  grew  into  a  halo,  and  the  pure, 
beautiful  face  beneath  resembled  portraits  of  saints  that  he 
had  seen  in  picture  galleries  abroad,  and  he  thought, 

"  If  the  world  would  only  worship  such  saints— lovely, 
nnselfish,  and  living  women— there  would  be  more  hope 
for  humanity." 

But  the  night  was  passing,  and  he  rose  to  depart. 
"  You  will  not  think  of  returning  before  the  break  of 
day?"   remonstrated  Vera. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  lingered  too  long  already  ;  I  must  be  at 
sny  post  in  the  morning,  and  i  have  much  to  do  during  the 


GULA   HEARS  A   VERITABLE  VOICE.  »3I 

day.  I  shall  return  to-morrow  evening  about  the  same 
hour  I  came  to-night.  And  now,  sir,  I  shall  ask  your  kind- 
ness to  guide  me  back  to  the  open  path." 

"  I  can  lead  you  by  a  much  nearer  way  to  Fort  Mont- 
gomery,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  rising  promptly  ;  "  and  to-night 
I  fee!  like  taking  the  walk." 

"  I  will  not  say  good-by,"  said  Vera,  in  parting,  *'  lest  it 
be  followed  by  another  long  and  dreary  absence. ' ' 

Her  father  guided  their  guest  for  several  miles,  and  1^ 
him  only  when  the  path  became  so  plain  as  to  be  easily 
followed.  Saville  was  greatly  pleased  that  his  visit  had  s? 
aroused  the  unhappy  man,  and,  during  their  walk,  con- 
tinued to  do  his  best  to  kindle  in  his  mind  a  healthful  inter- 
est in  the  outer  world.  He  even  obtained  from  him  a 
promise  that  he  would  come  with  Vera,  at  sunset  the  follow- 
ing evening,  to  the  place  where  they  parted. 

During  the  remainder  of  his  walk  to  the  fort,  Saville's 
mind  was  very  active  in  trying  to  solve  the  problems  pre- 
sented by  the  peculiar  character  and  situation  of  the  family. 
It  was  clearly  his  Srst  duty  to  supply  them  with  food  and 
clothing.  He  also  resolved,  at  the  earliest  opportunity,  to 
assure  the  military  authorities  of  Mr.  Brown's  loyalty  to 
the  American  cause,  and  thus  preserve  the  femily  from 
further  molestation,  because  suspected  cf  being  Tories.  Ke 
also  determined  that  if  Larry  and  his  wife,  Molly,  had  aughi 
to  do  with  the  outrages  that  had  been  committed  against  th-s 
family,  he  would  make  them  suffer  to  the  extent  of  his 
ability.  Vera,  fearing  that  it  might  lead  to  a  bloody  quar- 
rel, had  not  told  him  of  the  insult  received  at  Fort  Constitu- 
tion, when  she  crossed  thither  to  learn  what  had  become  of 
him. 

Early  the  following  morning,  he  sought  an  inter/iew  widi 
James  Clinton,  who  now  commanded  the  forts,  and  who, 
several  months  previous,  had  been  promoted  to  the  rank  o£ 
Roe— VIII— K 


23»  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

General.     Saville,  also,  on  the  ground  of  tnerit,  had  recently 
been  commissioned  captain  in  the  engineer  department. 

It  was  impossible  for  the  young  man  to  be  a  cool  advo- 
cate, or  to  be  satisfied  with  halfway  measures,  and  he  soon 
quite  enlisted  General  Clinton's  sympathies  in  behalf  of  his 
p-oieg'es.  His  request  for  a  brief  leave  of  absence  was 
readily  granted,  and  full  protection  for  the  family  promised. 

His  next  step  was  to  secure  a  boat  in  which  to  visit  Peek- 
skill,  that  he  might  obtain  the  articles  of  apparel  and  com- 
fort which  both  Vera  and  her  father  greatly  needed  ;  and 
therefore  he  summoned  the  colored  servant  whom  he  had 
lately  taken  into  his  employ,  and  who  thus  far  had  proved  a 
bundle  of  contradictions,  a  human  riddle,  that  his  master 
had  been  unable  to  solve. 

He  %Yas  a  genuine  African  in  features  and  manner,  and  of 
that  uncertain  age  which  made  it  doubtful  whether  he  was 
man  or  boy.  He  had  presented  himself  at  Saville's  tent  on 
the  morning  after  his  arrival,  asking  for  service. 

••  Where  do  you  come  from  ?"   Saville  asked. 

'*  From  nowhar  in  'ticklar,"  was  the  indefinite  response. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Mas'r  kin  call  me  w-hat  he  likes." 

"  Haven't  you  any  name  ?" 

"  I'se  had  a  sight  o'  names  ;  jes'  as  liv  hab  annoder.  I'll 
answer  quicker' n  lightnin'  to  any  nam.e  you  gub  me,  if 
you'se  ony  take  me." 

"  Well,  who  are  you,  any  way  ?" 

"  I  doesn't  jes'  know." 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  this  region  V* 

"I'se  a-lookin'  for  somebody." 

"  And  somebody  is  looking  for  you,  I  imagine.  You 
have  run  away.     Where  is  your  master  ?" 

"  Dar  he  is,  I'se  a-hopin',"  said  this  most  indefinite  of 
human  atoms,  at  the  same  time  ducking  his  head  toward 


GULA   HEARS  A   VERITABLE  VOICE.  «35 

Saville.  "  Jes'  guv  me  a  chance,  and  you'se  *1I  see  I  knows 
a  heap  more  'bout  some  oder  tings  dan  I  does 'bout  vay- 
sell" 

**  Very  well,"  said  Saville  carelessly.  "  I  will  keep  yon 
till  you  are  claimed,  or  till  I  find  you  will  not  answer  my 
purpose." 

At  this,  the  boy  had  ducked  again,  and  pulled  a  little 
horn  of  wool  that  he  had  seemingly  coaxed  over  his  fore- 
head for  polite  or  politic  uses. 

*'  Now,  if  mas'r  '11  jes'  guv  me  a  handle,  I'se  '11  begio 
to  be  use'  1  right  straight. ' ' 

"  *  A  handle  ! '  " 

"  Yeh,  sumpen  to  call  and  send  me  by." 

"  Oh  !  a  name.     Any  one  of  your  old  ones  will  answer. " 

"  If  mas'r  please,  I'd  rudder  he  guv  me  a  new  un." 

*'  Bless  me  !  I  don't  know  what  to  call  you,  unless  I  tak« 
the  mathematician's  terms  for  an  unknown  quantity,  and 
name  you  X  Y  Z. " 

"  Dat'il  suit  kerzackly,"  was  the  delighted  response. 
"  '  Ekswyze.'     I  neber  had  as  big  a  name  as  dat  afore." 

"  But  I  shall  call  you  X  for  short,"  said  Saville,  laugh- 
ing.     * '  Now  let  me  see  what  you  can  do. ' ' 

The  boy,  even  in  a  few  hours,  proved  his  ability  to  serve 
well,  if  he  so  chose,  and  now  was  on  hand,  ready  to  do  his 
master's  bidding  with  alacrity. 

"  Find  me  a  small  sail-boat,  that  can  be  rowed  if  the 
wind  is  contrary,  and  be  ready  to  go  with  me  to  Peekskill 
in  half  an  hour. ' 

Within  less  time,  the  boy  reported  that  all  was  ready,  and 
a  favorable  breeze  soon  enabled  them  to  reach  the  store  of 
Daniel  Birdsall,  From  his  meagre  stock,  Saville  made  the 
best  selection  he  could,  half  smiling,  half  frowning  over  the 
coarse  material  and  stout  shoes  he  was  compelled  to  buy  fof 
Vera's  wear. 


234  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

*'  They  will  at  least  keep  her  warm,"  he  thought,  "  and 
I  have  no  fears  but  that,  by  some  form  of  woman's  magic, 
she  will  conjure  this  dark  stuff  into  a  tasteful  dress.  Per- 
haps I  may  do  better  another  time  in  the  stores  up  the 
river." 

He  also  purchased  an  abundance  of  ammunition,  and 
such  provisions  as  the  place  furnished.  Making  all  into 
two  stout  bundles,  he  returned,  landing  considerably  above 
She  fort,  as  he  did  not  wish  to  be  followed  by  curious  eyes. 

"  Now,  X,  take  the  boat  back,  and  return  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. If  any  inquire  where  I  am,  say  that  I  am  shooting 
among  the  hills." 

X  speedily  rejoined  his  master,  at  whose  bidding  he  took 
up  the  heavier  bundle,  and  followed  without  a  jot  of  inter- 
est, apparently,  as  to  their  destination. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  sense  enough  to  hold  your 
tongue,"  said  Saville.  "  For  a  time,  you  may  be  able  to 
serve  me  best  by  serving  others.  I  have  friends  back  in  the 
mountains,  with  whom  1  may  leave  you  ;  and  if  there  is 
anything  about  them  that  seems  strange,  think  what  yoa 
please,  but  never  speak  of  what  you  see  and  hear  to  any 
one.  If  you  do,  I  have  the  means  of  making  you  wish  you 
had  bitten  your  tongue  off  first." 

"  Mas'r  Saville' 11  find  out  by-and-by  dat  I'se  po'ful  good 
at  knowin'  nuffin  dat's  nobody's  business." 

"Yes,"  laughed  Saville  ;  "you  have  given  me  a  proof 
of  that  already.     I  think  you  may  be  just  the  boy  I  want." 

The  sun  appeared  like  a  great  beacon-fire  on  the  summit 
of  a  western  mountain,  as  they  reached  the  place  where  INIr. 
Brown  had  promised  to  meet  them  with  Vera  ;  but  there 
was  not  a  trace  of  their  presence. 

"They  have  not  arrived  yet,"  thought  Saville,  "  but  it 
Is  time  they  were  near.  I  will  give  our  old  signal,  and 
Vera  may  answer  ;"  and  he  played  the  familiar  ain 


CULA   HEARS  A    VERITABLE  VOICE.  235 

Almost  immediately  a  powerful  yet  bird-like  voice  an- 
swered, from  a  neighboring  thicket, 

"  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows." 

"  Gosh  !  what's  dat  ?"  said  X,  starting  up  in  great  alarm. 

' '  That  is  your  future  mistress,  X  ;  don' t  run  away  till 
you  see  her." 

As  Vera  stepped  forth  with  her  father,  her  strange  appear- 
ance and  remarkable  beauty  so  impressed  poor  X  that  he 
muttered, 

' '  I  knowed  any  critter  wid  a  voice  like  dat  mus'  be  a 
speret  from  one  place  or  t'oder.  Tink  she  ain't  from  t'oder, 
dough  ;  for  dat  ar  singin'  was  hebbenly,  sure  'nuff.  But  I 
doesn't  like  de  looks  ob  de  ole  man." 

X  soon  gained  his  stolid  composure,  however,  and  was 
able  to  pull  his  little  woolly  horn  with  his  wonted  noncha- 
lance, when  introduced  with  his  big  bundle. 

Saville  greeted  his  friends  with  the  utmost  cordiality,  and 
sought  by  his  manner  to  banish  their  timidity.  Hope  and 
happiness  had  already  wrought  a  marvelous  change  in  Vera, 
and  Saville,  as  of  old,  found  himself  wondering  at  her 
beaut}'. 

"  What  have  you  here.?"  she  asked,  with  childlike  curi- 
osity and  vivacity. 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  this  is  X  Y  Z.  If  you  can  find 
out  any  more  about  him,  you  will  accomplish  more  than  I 
have  done.  As  for  these  bundles,  we  will  open  them  at  the 
cabin.  If  you  will  spread  a  banquet  for  me  again  to-night, 
you  will  find  that  I  shall  need  no  urging  to  partake  of  it." 

"  I  have  nothing  better  than  a  few  more  birds,"  said 
Vera  ruefully. 

"  What  could  be  better,  my  quaint  Ariel  ?  Come,  moon- 
light will  not  satisfy  me  to-night. ' ' 

The  moon  was  just  rising  when  they  reached  the  cabin. 
X  sat  down  with  his  bundle  where  he  was  bidden,   and. 


2$6  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

wearied  with  the  fatigue  of  the  day,  was  inclined  to  go  im- 
mediately to  sleep,  when  a  name,  uttered  by  Saville,  aroused 
him  thoroughly. 

"  Gula,"  Saville  had  called,  "  come  and  see  what  I  have 
brought  you." 

"Gula!"  repeated  X.  "What  Gula  is  dis  ?"  and  he 
strained  his  eyes  toward  the  dark  recess  among  the  rocks 
where  glowed  a  few  live  coals.  After  a  moment,  he  could 
endure  his  suspense  no  longer,  and  said, 

"  Mas'r  Saville,  shall  I  bring  de  tings  dar  ?" 

'  *  What  voice  is  dat  ?' '  cried  Gula  in  her  shrillest  and 
most  excited  tones.  And  she  rushed  to  the  spot  where 
X  was  standing  in  trembling  expectancy. 

"  Who  is  you  ?     What  is  your  name  ?' '   she  asked  eagerly. 

"  De  name  Mas'r  Saville  guv  me  is  Ekswyze,"  said  X 
mechanically. 

"  No  !  no  !  no  I"  cried  Gula,  more  shrill  and  excited 
ihan  ever.  "  What  name  did  you'se  mudder  gib  you  when 
you'se  was  a  little  diile  ?" 

"Tascar." 

With  a  wild  cry  Gula  threw  her  arms  around  the  boy,  ex- 
claiming, "  I'se  your  mudder  I  Fse  called  you  Tascar 
when  you  was  a  baby,  arter  one  I  lubbed  in  de  warm  sun- 
land.  Oh  !  my  po',  ole,  dead  heart  jes'  seem  as  if  it  had 
riz  right  up  out  ob  de  grave. ' ' 

All  gathered  round  Gula,  overflowing  with  sympathy  and 
congratulations,  and  the  moon,  rising  above  the  eastern 
Highlands,  enabled  the  mother  to  see  the  features  of  her 
long-lost  son.     Every  moment  or  two  she  would  cry  out, 

*'  Yeh,  yeh,  it  is  my  little  Tascar,  sure  'nuff. " 

*'  I  knowed  I'd  find  you,  mudder,"  said  the  boy  delight- 
edly. "  Dey  couldn't  keep  me  long  down  dar  when  dey 
sole  me  'way  from  you.  I  came  back  to  whar  you  used  to 
?se,  and  foun'  you  had  run  up  dis  way  (lame  Tom  tole  me). 


GULA    HEARS  A    VERITABLE    VOICE.  237 

De  world  is  po'ful  big  place,  but  I   knowed  I'd  find  you  if 
I  only  looked  long  'nuff.  " 

"  You  are  now  no  longer  an  unknown  quantity,  so  we 
will  call  you  Tascar  after  this,"  said  Saville,  laughing. 

"  And  now,  Gula,"  added  Vera,  "  you  have  at  last  heard 
a  real  voice,  and  I  hope  it  will  satisfy  you,  so  that  you  will 
not  listen  any  more  for  those  strange,  unearthly  voices  that 
you  thought  were  calling  you  away  from  us.  I  suppose 
Tascar  is  hungrj',  like  the  rest  of  us  ;  so  you  may  take  him 
into  your  rocky  kitchen,  and  let  him  help  you  get  our  sup- 
per. iNIr.  Saville  has  generously  brought  us  a  great  many 
things. 

"See,  Mr.  Saville,"  she  continued,  taking  his  arm,  and 
leading  him  a  little  apart ;  "see  what  a  difference  your  com- 
ing has  made  to  us  all.  Old  Gula  has  found  her  son  ;  and 
father  has  changed  so  much  for  the  better,  I  scarcely  know 
him..  " 

"  And  you  .?"  he  asked  gently. 

"  Ah  !  Mr.  Saville,  you  nave  never  known  what  it  v>'as  to 
have  but  one  friend,  one  hope,  in  the  world.  When  I  first 
heard  your  steps,  I  was  lying  on  mother's  grave,  and  prav- 
ing  that  I  might  speedily  sleep  beside  her.  Surely  God 
sent  you  to  us.  " 

"  Think  so,  little  one,  if  it  does  you  any  good." 

"  But  do  you  not  think  so  .'" 

"All  I  know  is  that  I  have  come,  and  very  glad  I  am 
that  it  was  not  too  late.  " 

"  I  wish  you  could  explain  to  me  abou  God,  and  make 
Him  seem  near  to  me  again." 

"  I  cannot,  Vera  ;  let  us  change  the  subject,"  Saville  re- 
plied, a  little  abruptly. 

She  sighed,  but  soon  gave  herself  up  to  thorough  enjoy- 
ment of  the  happiest  hour  that  had  ever  yet  come  into  her 
brief  and  shadowed  life. 


S38  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

CAMP   FIRES  AND    SUBTLER   FLAMES. 

NOT  very  long  after  their  bountiful  supper,  Savills 
said, 

"  I  had  but  little  sleep  last  night,  and  have  taken  many 
steps  to-day  ;  so,  with  your  permission,  I  will  seek  a  resting- 
place.  " 

"  I  am  sorry  that  we  have  scarcely  anything  better  than 
the  cabin  floor  to  offer  you, ' '  said  Vera  ruefully, 

**  You  forget  that  I  am  a  soldier,  and  that  at  this  time  of 
the  year  I  ask  no  better  bed  than  the  greensward," 

The  cabin,  like  the  larger  one  near  West  Point,  had  been 
constructed  with  a  small  loft.  Into  this  Vera  crept,  but  for 
a  long  time  was  too  happy  for  sleep. 

Saville  took  the  blanket  that  Tascar  had  brought  at  his 
bidding,  and,  throwing  himself  under  a  wide-spreading 
hemlock,  slept  as  only  the  strong  and  weary  can  sleep. 
Gula  and  her  son  dozed  and  crooned  in  their  rocky  recess, 
till  the  dawn  aroused  them  to  preparations  for  breakfast 
Even  the  poor,  remorseful  exile  rested  with  an  unwonted 
sense  of  security. 

The  next  morning,  Saville  tried  to  induce  Mr.  Brown  to 
permit  him  to  find  them  a  better  home  nearer  the  fort,  but 
found  that  any  proposition  of  the  kind  would  not  be  enter- 
tained. 

"  I  have  a  feeling  that  I  am  safe  here,  and  nowhere  else," 
he  said.  ' '  If  you  think  best.  Vera  and  Gula  can  go,  but 
I  shall  remain. ' ' 


CAMP  FIRES  A. YD    SUBTLER  FLAMES.        239 

"  I  shall  not  leave  you,  father, "  said  Vera,  quietly. 

"Well,"  said  Saville,  cheerily  but  firmly,  "then  we 
must  make  you  all  as  comfortable  here  as  we  can.  A  new 
cabin,  as  large  as  the  old  one  that  was  burned,  must  be 
built." 

"But  that  will  attract  attention,"  remonstrated  Mr. 
Brown. 

"  Suppose  it  does.  I  have  satisfied  General  Clinton  that 
you  are  loyal  to  our  cause,  and  he  has  promised  you  and 
y^ur  family  full  protection.  " 

"  Does  General  Clinton  know  anything  of  me  and  my 
whereabouts  V  cried  the  man,  starting  up  in  great  alarm. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  and  if  he  had  only  known  before  what  I  told 
him  yesterday,  you  would  not  have  been  molested  in  your 
old  home.  Can  you  not  see,  Mr.  Brown,  that  nothing  so 
draws  attention  and  suspicion  as  your  effort  to  hide  from 
every  one .?  At  the  time  I  was  so  hastily  ordered  away  from 
this  region,  I  yielded  to  your  judgment,  and  did  not  say  much 
concerning  you,  not  having  your  permission.  But  now, 
for  Vera's  sake,  as  well  as  your  own,  I  can  allow  no  doubt 
to  exist  as  to  the  fact  of  your  being  heartily  on  our  side.  In 
respect  to  anything  else,  no  one  seeks  to  know  aught.  I 
can  promise  you  all  perfect  safety,  if  you  will  do  just  what 
I  ask.  " 

The  exile's  brow  contracted  darkly,   but  he  would  not 
meet  Saville' s  eye. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Saville,  in  a  low,  meaning  tone. 

The  man  now  gave  him  a  startled,  apprehensive  look. 

"  I  can  promise  you  perfect  safetj^  if  you  do  just  what  I 
ask,"  Saville  continued,  in  the  same  low,  significant  voice. 

' '  I  will,  I  will, ' '  was  the  eager  reply. 

"  There's  my  hand  in  pledge." 

Mr.  Brown  seized  it  like  a  drowning  man,  and  from  that 
hour  became  Saville 's  slave. 


240  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

Vera  watched  this  strange  interview  with  a  beating  heart, 
and,  at  its  close,  felt  as  never  before,  even  that  her  destiny 
also  was  controlled  by  the  young  stranger,  whom  Providence 
had  sent,  as  she  believed,  to  rescue  both  herself  and  her 
father  from  the  hopeless  and  helpless  condition  into  which 
they  had  drifted. 

With  characteristic  energy  and  promptness,  Saville  set 
about  the  tasks  made  necessary  by  the  decision  to  remain  in 
the  secluded  glen.  He  decided  that  the  little  hut  already 
built  should  be  preserved  for  Gula  and  her  son  ;  and  the 
plan  of  a  much  larger  cabin,  for  the  use  of  Vera  and  her 
,  father,  was  marked  out  adjoining  it. 

"I  also  mean  to  have  a  little  nook  myself, "  he  said. 

"  It  will  all  be  yours, "  Vera  added  promptly. 

He  looked  at  her  so  earnestly  that  the  blood  came  into 
her  face,  though  why,  she  did  not  know.  After  a  moment, 
he  said,  half  to  her,  and  half  in  soliloquy, 

' '  I  cannot  tell  why  it  is,  but  this  place  already  seems  to 
me  more  like  a  home  than  any  I  have  yet  known." 

"  I  do  not  understand  hov^ you  can  feel  so,"  said  Vera, 
looking  frankly  into  his  face.  ' '  It  will,  in  truth,  be  home 
to  me  ;  because  containing,  when  you  are  here,  all  whom 
I  love." 

Again  he  gave  her  an  earnest  look,  as  he  said, 

"  Nature  is  a  rare  teacher,  my  little  friend  ;  and  she  has 
taught  you  a  truth  which  we  sometimes  forget,  to  our  sor- 
row.  Only  the  places  which  contain  those  whom  we  love 
can  be  homes. " 

"  And  it  is  your  love  for  us,"  exclaimed  Vera,  openly 
and  joyously,  as  if  she  had  solved  the  mystery,  "  that  makes 
this  forbidding  place  seem  homelike." 

"  That  is  not  bad  logic, "  he  replied,  laughing  ;  "  though 
your  pronoun  is  rather  too  general." 

*' How  strange  it  is,"   said  Vera,  musingly,   "that  we 


CAMP  FIRES  AND    SUBTLER  FLAMES.       %\\ 

should  have  met  as  we  did,  and  that  you  should  have  be- 
come my  brother  m  very  truth  !  Do  such  things  often  haj)- 
pen  in  the  world  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Then  I  have  been  specially  favored,  when  I  have  been 
almost  repining  at  my  lot  " 

"  I  certainly  have  been  ver}'  fortunate  in  finding  such  a 
sweet,  wild  flower  in  this  wilderness  of  a  world.  But 
come  ;  this  is  not  preparing  for  the  cold  storms  of  winter, 
which,  unfortunately,  are  near.  You  must  ply  the  needle, 
and  bring  home  the  game,  while  your  father  and  Tascar  do 
the  heavy  work.  Ye  gods  !  how  I  would  like  to  stay  here 
and  help  you  !  I  have  brought  plenty  of  powder  and  shot 
for  your  gun." 

"  But  will  it  be  safe  to  have  the  report  of  fire-arms  heard 
here  ?' ' 

"  Certainly  ;  the  old  policy  of  hiding  and  concealment  is 
past  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  can,  I  shall  find  you  a  home  where 
you  can  have  good,  kind  neighbors.  Bring  your  gun,  and 
let  me  see  if  you  can  hit  that  gray  squirrel  in  yonder  tall 
tree. 

She  complied,  with  the  joyousness  of  a  child,  and  was 
soon  within  range  with  her  light  fowling-piece. 

' '  Now,  quick  !  before  he  moves, ' '  cried  Saville. 

Her  merry  laugh  rang  out,  as  she  threw  pebbles  at  the 
little  creature,  till,  thoroughly  alarmed,  it  ran  to  the  top- 
most boughs.  Then,  as  it  was  in  the  act  of  springing  to' 
another  tree,  she  fired,  and  it  fell  dead  at  her  feet. 

"  I  take  off  my  hat  to  you,"  cried  Saville.  "  You  excel 
Diana  herself." 

The  morning  passed  all  too  quickly,  and,  after  an  early 
dinner,  Saville  returned  to  the  fort,  taking  Tascar,  that 
he  might  send  back  by  him  tools  and  other  needed  ar- 
ticles. 


842  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

During  the  week  following,  Saville  pleaded,  with  justice, 
that  he  had  scarcely  had  a  respite  from  duty  since  joining 
the  service,  and  obtained  leave  to  absent  himself  for  several 
days.  He  started  ostensibly  upon  a  hunting  excursion  in 
the  mountains,  but  took  the  shortest  path  to  the  secluded 
valley,  which  was  beginning  to  have  for  him  peculiar  attrac- 
tions. 

The  days  passed  like  enchantment.  Under  the  new  and 
happier  conditions  of  her  life,  Vera  appeared  to  grow  hourly 
in  beauty  and  fascination.  The  recuperative  power  of 
nature  was  in  her  mind  and  body.  She  was  like  a  sunny 
bank,  that  a  few  warm  spring  days  change  from  wintry  bare- 
ness to  fragrant  bloom. 

Her  feeling  for  Saville  was  the  frank,  undisguised  affec- 
tion of  a  sister  ;  or,  perhaps  more  truly,  the  strong,  inno- 
cent love  of  a  child,  that  gives  its  heart  wholly  for  the  time 
to  those  who  win  it. 

The  woman  in  Vera  was  still  unawakened,  though,  at 
times,  there  was  an  intensity  in  Saville' s  gaze  that  quickened 
her  pulse  a  little,  and  mantled  her  cheek  with  a  richer  hue 
than  even  restored  vigor  was  giving  it  again. 

As  for  Saville,  he  was  self -deceived.  We  have  already 
seen  that  he  had  a  faculty  for  illusion,  and  this  'jras  espe- 
cially true  in  the  line  of  his  favorite  theories.  As  he  had 
once  imagined  his  transient  passion  for  a  most  unworthy 
object  to  be  the  precursor  of  lasting  and  conjugal  affection, 
so  now  he  regarded  the  pure  flame  of  love,  which  was  kin- 
dling  in  his  heart  for. Vera,  as  a  lofty  kind  of  friendship,  re- 
sulting from  the  peculiar  accord  of  their  two  natures.  He 
felt  that  he  was  in  all  respects  ennobled  and  made  better  by 
her  society.  Unconsciously  she  stimulated  every  good 
quality  he  possessed  into  greater  vigor.  She  was  so  pure 
and  innocent  herself  that  his  passion  slept  in  her  presence, 
while  his  higher  faculties  of  mind  and  heart  were  awakened 


CAMP   FIEES  AND   S(/BTLER   FLAMES.        243 

into  aspirations  that  were  as  thrillingly  delightful  as  they 
were  foreign  to  all  his  former  experience. 

Moreover,  his  conscience  commended  the  part  he  was 
acting  toward  her.  The  circumstances  of  their  acquaintance 
had  been  such,  that  ever}' -generous,  sympathetic  trait  he 
possessed  was  enlisted  in  her  behalf.  He  regarded  himself 
as  a  disciple  of  nature  and  an  apostle  of  humanity.  In  his 
view,  nature  had  been  her  teacher,  and  had  formed  her 
character ;  and  the  result  confirmed  his  theory  that  all 
should  be  guided  by  nature's  teachings.  In  their  warm  and 
growing  friendship,  were  not  they  both  following  the  strong 
and  natural  impulses  of  their  hearts  .? 

As  one  devoted  to  the  interests  of  humanity,  he  would 
consider  himself  most  false,  did  he  leave  this  innocent 
maiden  to  the  perils  of  her  peculiar  isolated  condition,  and 
he  honestly  desired  to  obtain  for  her  a  safe  and  recognized 
position  in  society,  as  soon  as  possible. 

But  the  spell  of  her  beauty  grew  daily  upon  him  ;  tha 
touch  of  her  hand  was  acquiring  subtle  power  to  thrill  every 
nerve  and  fiber  of  his  body  ;  the  tones  of  her  voice  kept  re- 
peating themselves  for  long  hours  in  his  heart  ;  and  before 
his  visit  was  over,  even  the  man  of  theories  and  illusions 
was  perplexed  at  certain  peculiarities  in  his  platonic  friend- 
ship. 

But  the  woman  in  Vera  still  slumbered,  and  she  returned 
his  affection  with  the  same  frank  innocence  as  at  first. 

After  his  visit  to  the  romantic  glen,  life  at  the  fort  was  to 
Saville  very  "weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable."  Not 
even  the  fact  that  the  enemy  might  soon  make  a  demon- 
stration up  the  river,  could  greatly  divert  his  thoughts  at 
first,  and  only  as  the  tidings  from  the  armies,  under  both 
Washington  and  Gates  grew  full  of  exciting  interest,  and 
the  prospect  that  the  British  forces  in  New  York  v/ould  seek 
to  force  their  v.-ay  through  the  Highlands  became  quite  cer- 


244  NEAR    TO  NA  TURK'S  HEART, 

tain,  did  his  old  military  ardor  rekindle.  As  all  seemed 
quiet  on  Saturday  evening,  the  4th  of  October,  he  obtained 
permission  to  be  absent  from  the  fort  during  the  Sabbath. 
The  moment  the  duties  of  the  day  were  over,  he  was  on  his 
way  to  the  secluded  valley,  which  now  shut  in  his  thoughts 
from  the  outer  world  almost  as  completely  as  it  immured 
the  exiles  who  had  found  a  refuge  there. 

His  coming  was  a  glad  surprise  to  Vera,  and  there  were 
evidences  of  deeper  feeling  in  her  welcome  than  she  had 
ever  yet  manifested. 

"  You  are  not  going  away  again  from  this  region  .?"  she 
asked  eagerly. 

"  Not  soon,  that  I  am  aware.     Why  .?" 

"  I  have  had  such  a  drear}'  foreboding  of  evil  of  some 
kind,  and  last  night  I  dreamed ' '  and  she  suddenly  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Why,  Vera,  this  is  unlike  you  :  are  you  well  V 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  it  was  such  a  terrible  dream  !" 

*'  Tell  me  it,  and  I  will  explain  it  away." 

"  I  dreamed  that  there  had  been  a  battle,  and  that  you 
were  left  wounded  and  dying  on  the  ground,  and  I  could 
not  find  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  shuddering  tone,  with 
tears  starting  afresh.      "  Is  there  prospect  of  a  battle  ?" 

"  No  special  prospect — no  more  than  there  has  been  for 
several  days  past ;  but  a  soldier  cannot  look  for  anything 
else." 

"  I  wish  I  did  not  feel  so,"  said  Vera. 

"  Come,  cheer  up,  my  little  friend.  Dreams  go  by  con- 
traries. Never  shed  tears  over  troubles  that  may  not  come  ;" 
and  he  exerted  himself  to  his  utmost  to  banish  her  gloomy 
fears. 

The  new  log  cabin,  at  which  he  also  had  labored  during 
his  visit,  was  now  nearly  complete,  and  he  kindled  a  genial 
fire  in  its  ample  chimney-place. 


CAMP   FIRES  AND    SUBTLER   FLAMES.        245 

He  took  a  genuine  interest  in  all  that  had  been  done  in 
his  absence,  and  praised  the  results  o(  each  one's  labor. 
But  Vera  noted  with  pleasure  that  he  lingered  longest  over 
her  handiwork.  Never  before  had  he  been  so  kind  or  so 
thoughtful  of  her.  His  mere  tones  and  glances  were  like 
caresses.  But  all  this  only  made  her  heart  more  full,  for 
she  could  not  cast  off  the  miserable  presentiment  with  which 
she  had  risen  that  morning.  For  his  sake,  however,  she 
disguised  her  feelings. 

After  dinner,  the  following  day,  they  took  a  long  walk 
together,  ana  she  accompanied  him  well  on  his  way  back  to 
the  fort. 

As  they  were  parting,  she  said,  as  she  clung  to  his  hand, 

"  Promise  me  one  thing — if  there  is  a  battle — that  yot? 
will  not  needlessly  or  recklessly  expose  yourself.  What 
would  become  of  us  if  you  were — if  you  were — oh  !  my 
heart  almost  breaks  even  at  the  thought  !  If  you  have  any 
pity  or  love  for  me,  grant  what  I  ask. 

"  '  If  I  have  any  love  for  you,'  Vera?  I  hardly  dare 
trust  my  heart  to  answer.  Well,  well,  little  sister,  I  will  be 
as  prudent  as  a  soldier  can  be  with  honor.  I  must  say 
good-by  at  once,  or  I  may  be  tempted  not  to  go  at  all," 
and  for  the  first  time  he  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  fore- 
head. 

She  watched  his  receding  figure  as  long  as  it  was  visible, 
and  then  returned  to  the  cabin,  with  an  increasing  weight 
upon  her  heart. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  vicinity  of  the  fort,  the  camp 
fires  were  lighted,  and  around  these  the  men  were  gathered, 
cooking  the  evening  meal.  To  divert  his  thoughts,  he  wan- 
dered aimlessly  here  and  there,  watching  the  strange  effects 
of  light  and  shadow  among  the  rocks  and  evergreens,  and 
the  picturesqueness  of  the  bearded  men  as  they  passed  to 
and  fro  between  the  fires.     Even  the  coarse  rations  of  the 


24^  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

soldiery  gave  forth  a  savory  odor  in  the  open  air.  From 
all  sides  came  the  cheerful  hum  of  voices,  and  from  many 
groups,  the  sound  of  laughter,  or  the  notes  of  a  rollicking 
song. 

"  This  scene  has  more  the  air  of  a  gypsy  encampment 
than  the  stern  aspect  of  war,"  he  thought  "  I  wish  Vera 
could  see  it,  for  it  would  quite  allay  her  fears.  What  does 
that  singing  mean  yonder?"  and  he  made  his  way  to  a 
large  fire,  around  which  numbers  were  increasing  con- 
tinually. ' ' 

"  Oh  !  it's  a  religious  meeting.  There  is  Parson  Gano  ! 
How  dearly  A^era  would  love  to  hear  his  pious  jargon,  and 
would  swallow  it  all,  poor  child,  as  undoubted  truth  ! 
Still,  I  am  glad  to  note  that  she  speaks  less  and  less  ol 
these  things,  and  think  she  has  a  native  strength  of  mind 
which  will  enable  her  to  outgrow  her  superstitious  trammels. 
Well,  Gano  is  a  good,  brave  fellow,  if  he  is  teaching  solemn 
nonsense  ;  and  out  of  curiosity  I'll  stay,  and  hear  what  he 
has  to  say."  And  he  sat  down  under  the  shadow  of  a  tree, 
and  watched  the  scene,  as  one  might  look  on  some  heathen- 
ish incantation. 

The  throng  around  the  fire  grew  large,  for  the  preacher 
was  a  popular  speaker.  Officers  mingled  with  the  men,  as 
they  would  do  in  the  plain  meeting  houses  in  their  distant 
village  homes  ;  and  Saville  could  not  help  noting  that  the 
serious  faces  lighted  up  by  the  glare  of  the  central  fire, 
were,  in  the  main,  raanlj',  self-respecting  and  intelligent. 

"  How  is  it,"  he  asked  himself,  "that  sane  and  even 
very  clever  people  can  keep  up  with  so  much  pains  this  old- 
fashioned  mummery  of  religion.?  Cuihono?  What  is  the 
good  of  it  all  1  Here  we  are  living  in  a  world  of  inexorable 
law  and  destiny,  and  yet  multitudes  are  praying  to  an  old 
Hebrew  divinity,  that  never  had  any  existence,  as  if  they 
expected  practical  help  !     Could  anything  be  more  absurd  ? 


CAMF   FTRES  AND    SUBTLER    FLAMES.       247 

The  idea  of  my  getting  down  on  my  knees,  and  praying  to 
one  of  Homer's  demi-gods  !  What  is  it  in  men  that  makes 
them  so  credulous  ?' ' 

Here  he  suspended  his  soUloquy  to  listen  to  the  hymn 
which  the  chaplain  gave  out  before  his  sermon.  The  voices 
that  sang  it  were  untrained  and  rough,  and  the  harmony 
not  ver}'  smooth,  and  yet  the  critical  listener  admitted  to 
himself  that  there  was  a  certain  element  in  the  music  which 
made  it  differ  from  a  mere  performance. 

"  Human  action,  however  absurd  and  unreasonable,  is 
always  impressive  when  earnest,"  he  philosophized ; 
' '  but,  after  -  all,  what  is  the  secret  spring  in  man  which 
leads  to  this  folly  ?' ' 

Though  not  aware  of  it  at  first,  he  was  answered  by  the 
text,  which  was  now  announced  : 

"  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the 
life  ;  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet 
shall  he  live  ; 

"  And  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me  shall  never 
die,      Believest  thou  this  ?" 

"No,  "was  Saville's  decided  mental  response.  "That 
Jesus  said  this  '  unto  her, '  is  most  appropriate,  for  it  was  an 
assertion  fit  to  be  addressed  only  to  a  credulous  woman,  " 

"  The  Being  who  uttered  these  remarkable  words,"  began 
the  chaplain,  simply  standing  up  before  the  fire,  and  talk- 
ing in  a  familiar  and  fatherly  way  to  his  audience,  "  had  the 
power  to  make  them  good  ;  and,  therefore,  we  may  take  to 
our  hearts  all  the  hope  and  encouragement  they  contain." 

"That  is  where  we  differ,"  thought  Saville,  rising  and 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Why  had  the  man,  Jesus,  such 
power,  more  than  other  enthusiasts  of  the  past  ?  That  is 
the  way  with  all  these  teachers  of  religion.  They  first  as- 
sume what  is  contrary  to  reason,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
their  conclusions  are  absurd,  and  often  monstrous.     There 


248  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

Is  HO  use  of  my  wasting  more  time  here."  But,  as  he  was 
moving  away,  tlie  preacher' s  words  again  caught  his  atten- 
tion. 

"To-night,"  said  Chaplain  Gano,  "the  scenes,  even 
within  and  around  these  miUtary  forts,  are  peaceful,  rather 
than  warlike.  The  sky  is  cloudless,  and  there  are  the  stars 
looking  down  as  steadily  as  the  eyes  of  God.  Only  the 
insects'  chirp  is  heard  in  the  dark  valleys  and  on  the  steeps 
around  us.  The  Sabbath  stillness  is  broken  by  no  ruder 
sounds  than  the  profane  mirth  and  songs  which  sometimes 
disturb  our  worship.  To  the  ear  of  heaven,  though,  ribald 
words  and  laughter  make  harsher  discord  than  the  wildest 
din  of  battle,  where  freemen  are  warring  for  their  rights. 
Still,  there  is  nothing  apparent  to  man,  in  the  scenes  about 
us  to-night,  to  awaken  the  emotion  of  fear,  even  in  the 
breasts  of  the  fearful. 

"But,  what  shall  be  on  the  morrow?  Such  is  our  un- 
certain tenure  of  earthly  life,  we  could  not  ask  this  question 
in  our  peaceful  homes  without  misgivings.  But,  how  much 
it  means  to  the  soldiery  !  Only  by  killing  many  of  us,  do 
our  enemies  hope  to  put  their  feet  again  upon  our  necks. 
Many  of  us  must  be  slain  before  our  righteous  cause  can 
triumph.  A  few  years,  perhaps  but  a  few  days — do  not 
think  I  am  talking  wildly  when  I  say,  but  a  few  hours— may 
elapse  before  these  warm,  living  bodies  of  ours  become  like 
the  clods  beneath  our  feet." 

A  foreboding  recollection  of  Vera's  dream  came  into 
Saville's  mind. 

"  Young  man, "  continued  the  chaplain  more  earnestly, 
leveling  his  long  finger  at  a  carelesis  young  fellow,  who  was 
whispering  to  a  comrade  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire, 
"  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  are  a  brave  soldier.  Alas  !  you 
seem  so  bold  that  you  are  willing  to  defy  God  as  well  as 
man.     When  the  foe  attacks  these  forts,  you  will  try  to  do 


CAMP  FIRES  AND    SUBTLER  FLAMES.        249 

your  duty.  But  do  you  not  realize  that  this  very  duty  may 
cause  your  vigorous  young  body  to  be  racked  with  dying 
pains  ?  If  I  could  tell  you  that  to-morrow  evening  you 
would  be  lying  dead  somewhere  in  the  cold  starlight,  what 
ought  you  to  do  now  ?  What  ought  you — and  you — and 
you — to  do  ?' '  he  asked  solemnly,  sv/eeping  his  finger 
around  the  entire  circle.      ' '  What  ought  we  all  to  do  ? 

"Ought.?  How  great  the  privilege,  rather,  of  creatures 
like  ourselves — weak  and  ready  to  perish  at  all  times,  now 
hourly  exposed  to  peril — how  great  is  the  privilege  of  heed- 
ing the  Divine  Saviour  as  He  cries,  '  I  am  the  resurrection 
and  the  life.'  If  we  trust  and  fear  the  One  who  spake 
these  words,  we  have  naught  else  to  fear.  The  bullet  that 
pierces  us  may  be  but  God's  swift  messenger  to  summon  us 
home.  Suppose  our  mangled  bodies  do  strew  these  rugged 
hill-sides  and  rocky  forts  !  The  cruel  foe  cannot  so  trample 
them  out  of  shape,  nor  time  so  destroy  them,  nor  the  winds 
so  scatter  and  dissipate  them,  but  that  He,  who  declared, 
'  I  am  the  resurrection, '  can  raise  them  up,  no  longer  dead 
and  defaced,  but  fashioned  like  unto  His  glorious  body ; 
and  so  shall  we  be  ever  with  the  Lord.  Then  why  live  an- 
other hour,  why  go  into  desperate  battle,  vv-ithout  this  pre- 
cious Friend  1 

"  Comrades  in  peril  !  I  have  not  sought  to  work  upon 
your  fears  to-night,  but  rather  to  lead  you  to  accept  a  faith 
which  makes  even  cowards  brave,  and  strong  men  lions  for 
the  right.  We  have  reason  to  think  that  we  shall  soon  meet 
the  enemy  ;  but  there  is  no  foe  on  earth,  or  in  hell  be- 
neath, that  can  strike  a  fatal  blow  at  the  honest  Christ- 
believer  and  follower." 

To  Saville's  surprise,  the  preacher  had  kept  him  a  listener 
until  the  close  of  his  exhortation.  Then  with  a  shrug,  he 
strode  away  into  the  darkness  saying,  "  Here,  I  suppose,  is 
the  secret  of  it  all.     Men  know  they  must  die  ;  these  poor 


250  NE.iR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

fellows  are  aware  that  they  may  be  knocked  on  the  head 
within  a  few  days.  They  all  want  to  live  after  they  are  dead 
(as  if  the  very  idea  were  not  absurd),  and  they  give  a  ready 
hearing  to  anybody  who  holds  out  the  hope  that  they  may. 
Well,  I  wouldn't  mind  an  eternal  Elysium  myself,  if  I  could 
have  the  fashioning  of  it.  One  thing  is  certain — Vera 
would  share  it  with  me." 

As  he  was  threading  his  way  among  the  camp-fires,  toward 
his  quarters,  he  heard  his  own  name  mentioned,  and  natu- 
rally paused  to  learn  in  what  connection  it  was  used.  The 
voice  came  from  beyond  a  clump  of  cedars  to  his  right, 
and,  looking  through  it,  he  saw,  just  below  a  ledge  of  rock, 
a  circle  of  visages,  differing  widely  in  character  from  those 
gathered  round  the  chaplain's  fire.  The  physiognomy  of 
Larry,  his  old  servant,  was  the  type  of  the  majority  on  which 
the  flames  were  flickering,  although  the  expression  of  many 
was  still  more  unpromising.  But  the  bold,  handsome  face 
of  his  wife,  "  Captain  Molly,"  would  have  received  the  first 
attention,  even  if  she  had  not  been  speaking. 

"  Is  it  where  yer  ould  masther,  Saville,  does  be  goin'  out 
in  the  woods  that  ye' re  askin',  Larry  ?" 

"  Yees." 

"  Well,  I'm  a-thinkin',  should  ye  follow  his  trail,  ye'd 
foind  the  White  Witch  o'  the  Highlands." 

"  It's  a  long  day  since  she's  been  seen  or  heard  on." 

"  He's  found  her,  I  warrant  ye  ;  an'  moighty  glad  I  am 
we  had  nothin'  to  do  wid  the  diviltry  when  Barneyw  as 
shot.  He  questioned  me  close,  an'  if  I'd  been  a-lyin', 
I  fear  he'd  a-cotched  me.  Wherever  this  gal  o'  his'n  is, 
folks  as  don't  want  their  heads  broke  ud  better  let  her 
alone. ' ' 

"  But  what  would  his  wife  say  to  his  galivantin'  off  in 
the  mountings  ?"   asked  Larry. 

"Why  should  he  care?"    said   Molly  carelessly.      "If 


CAMP  FIRES  AND   SUBTLER  FLAMES.       SJI 

what  ye  tell  me  is  thrue,  he's  got  a  divil  for  a  wife,  and  may 
well  look  for  a  betther  one." 

"  'Cordin'  to  that,"  snickered  Larry,  "it's  me  that  shud 
go  galivantin'  off  in  the  mountings  too." 

A  loud  laugh  followed  this  sally. 

"  Thry  it  once,"  cried  Molly,  "  an'  ye' 11  foind  that  the 
divil  will  be  arther  ye  in  a  way   ye' 11  not  forgit," 

"  Now  Molly,  me  darlint,  ye  knows  I  was  only  a-givin' 
ye  a  poke  in  the  ribs  in  sport,  so  ye  needn'  t  guv  me  any 
in  good  earnest.  My  ould  masther  can  have  the  White 
Witch  o'  the  Highlands,  and  the  Black  Witch,  too,  for  all 
o'  me." 

Saville  stayed  to  hear  no  more  of  their  low  talk,  but  hast- 
ened on,  his  cheeks  tingling  that  his  name  had  been  coupled 
with  that  of  the  m.aiden  under  such  circumstances. 

He  sat  down  in  his  tent  in  no  enviable  mood,  and,  for 
the  first  time,  permitted  his  mind  to  dwell  on  the  conse- 
quences of  his  growing  intimacy  with  Vera.  After  all, 
would  his  brother  officers,  would  the  world,  take  a  more 
charitable  view  than  that  which  he  had  just  heard  expressed  ? 
He  might  assert  that  his  love  for  Vera  was  friendship,  broth- 
erly affection  ;  but  he  plainly  foresaw  society's  shrug  of  in- 
credulity. From  the  depths  of  his  heart,  also,  a  question 
was  beginning  to  arise, 

**  Is  your  love  for  Vera  fraternal  or  platonic  only  ?"  And 
he  found  that  he  could  not  give  a  prompt  and  positive  an- 
swer. Then  the  pledge  he  had  made  on  the  memorable 
Sabbath  evening,  when  he  sacrificed  all  ties  to  his  patriotism, 
rose  up  before  him  like  a  spectre. 

"  I  shall  be  loyal  to  the  name  of  wife,  though  the  reality 
I  never  had." 

"Curses  on  the  priest-ridden,  law-marred  world  !"  he 
muttered,  "  wherein  every  natural  impulse  is  thwarted.  I£ 
I  continue  to  act  the  part  of  a  brother  toward  Vera,  society 


t52  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

will  point  its  finger  toward  us  both  in  scoffing  unbelief,  and 
imagine  the  worst.  If,  because  she  is  so  truly  lovable,  I 
come  to  love  her  more  warmly,  and  seek  for  some  honor- 
able solution  of  the  problem,  society  will  heartlessly  tell  me 
that  there  is  none,  in  this  prudish  land,  save  open  shame. 
I  shall  be  informed  that  the  combination  of  woman,  devil, 
and  bigot,  in  New  York,  is  my  wife  ;  that  the  mummery  in 
the  church  made  us  one,  when  we  have  nothing  in  common 
except  our  hate  ;  and  that  it  is  foul  sin  for  me  to  think  of 
another.  Where  is  men's  reason  ?  Why,  even  the  instinct 
of  this  coarse,  untutored  Irish  woman  hit  upon  a  better 
philosophy.  And  yet  so  it  is,  and  so  it  will  be  until  the 
broad  and  rational  principles  which  are  revolutionizing 
France  are  accepted  and  acted  upon  here.  Oh  !  that  we 
had  a  Voltaire  and  a  Rousseau  to  break  the  chains  of  the 
past,  and  teach  that  the  impulses  of  the  heart  are  right ! 
But  now,  all  my  pure  and  ennobling  affection  for  Vera,  and 
her  snow-white  love  for  me,  will  be  jumbled  in  the  same 
category  as  the  infidelity  of  this  woman,  Molly,  to  her  hus- 
band." 

Further  bitter  musings  were  interrupted  by  the  appearance 
of  an  orderly,  with  the  message  that  his  presence  was  required 
at  on^e  at  headquarters. 


^HE  STORMING  OF   THE  FORTS.  25| 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    STORMING   OF   THE    FORTS. 

>,N  reaching  the  tent  of  General  James  Clinton,  Saville 
found  all  the  leading  officers  of  the  garrison  already 
assembled,  and  was  informed  that  the  enemy  were  advancing 
up  the  river,  and  had  already  landed  large  forces  at  Tarry- 
town  and  Verplanck'  s  Feint.  He  also  found  that  Governor 
Clinton  had  just  arrived,  with  a  considerable  reinforcement 
of  militia.  After  giving  such  directions  as  were  deemed 
necessary,  Governor  Clinton  said, 

"The  enemy  will  probably  strike  Putnam  at  Peekskill 
first,  but  we  shall  have  our  own  share  of  fighting,  no  doubt, 
and  may  have  to  do  the  most  of  it.  It  is  well  known  to  you, 
gentlemen,  that  the  garrisons  are  not  as  strong  as  we  could 
wish.  We  must  double  our  strength  by  doubling  our  cour- 
age and  efforts.  I  shall  expect  every  man  to  do  his  whole 
duty.  I  request  that  the  engineer  officers  do  all  in  their 
power  to  strengthen  the  unfinished  portions  of  the  works. ' ' 

Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  night,  the  din  of  labor 
resounded,  and  only  toward  the  break  of  day  was  Saville 
able  to  get  a  little  sleep. 

On  awakening,  he  immediately  repaired  to  the  governor's 
tent  for  instructions,  and  had  scarcely  reached  the  place, 
when  Major  Logan,  who  had  been  sent  with  one  hundred 
men  on  a  scouting  expedition  beyond  the  Dunderberg,  re- 
turned, with  the  startling  information  that  about  forty  boats, 
crowded  with  British  troops,  had  landed  near  Stony  Point. 


•J54  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

Saville,  having  no  special  command,  was  willing  to  do 
anything  which  promised  active  and  exciting  service ;  he 
therefore  volunteered  to  go  on  a  reconnoissance.  Governor 
Clinton,  who  had  learned  his  value  in  such  employment  on 
%  previous  occasion,  at  once  accepted  his  offer,  and  ^.ve 
'bim,  as  a  support,  a  lieutenant  and  thirty  men. 

Saville  and  his  party  proceeded  rapidly  along  the  inoun= 
J&in-road  leading  from  Fort  Clinton  to  Haverstraw,  and, 
when  between  three  and  four  miles  out,  suddenly  met  the 
vanguard  of  the  English  forces,  upon  the  rapid  and  stealthy 
march  which  had,  as  its  object,  the  surprise  of  the  forts. 

The  small  American  detachment  was  peremptorily  sum- 
Wioned  to  surrender. 

"  Give  'em  a  volley  as  our  answer,"  said  Saville  ;  and 
the  wooded  defile  was  at  once  filled  with  the  preliminary 
echoes  of  the  mighty  uproar  soon  to  rage  among  the  High- 
lands. 

Under  the  cover  of  their  fire,  the  scouting  party  retreated 
rapidly  to  a  new  point  of  observation,  fortunately  none 
being  wounded  by  the  return  fire  of  the  enemy. 

After  some  further  skirmishing,  in  which  the  num-bers 
and  purposes  of  the  attacking  force  became  more  apparent 
Saville  retreated  rapidly,  without  the  loss  of  a  man,  and  re- 
ported. In  the  mean  time,  patrols  had  brought  word  that 
the  enemy  were  also  advancing  around  Bear  Mountain,  to 
the  rear  of  Fort  Montgomery. 

"  Putnam  has  been  outwitted,"  said  Governor  Clinton, 
"and  we've  got  to  take  all  the  blows.  Well,  I  believe  in 
giving  even  the  devil  his  due  ;  and,  in  rny  opinion.  Sir 
Henry  Clinton  has  executed  a  m.agnificent  piece  of  strategy. 
He  really  does  honor  to  the  name,  and  I  am  quite  inclined 
to  claim  relationship.  We  must  see  to  it,  James,  that  we 
prove  that  the  American  branch  of  the  family  has  not  degen- 
eratec^"  and  the  brothers  smiled  grimly  and  significajitiy. 


THE   STORMING   OF   THE  FORTS.  255 

Before  many  hours  passed.  Sir  Henry  himself  would  have 
been  among  the  first  to  admit  the  sturdiness  of  the  colonial 
stock. 

"It  is  now  past  noon,"  said  General  James  Clinton, 
"and  yet  we  hear  nothing  from  Putnam.  It's  very 
strange  !" 

"I  will  send  a  messenger  at  once  to  him,"  said  his 
brother,  and  a  man  by  the  name  of  Waterbury  was  dis- 
patched. 

' '  I  hope  that  fellow  can  be  depended  upon,  for  I  did  not 
like  his  looks  overmuch,"  said  James  Clinton.  "The 
firing  is  growing  sharp  out  on  the  Bear  Mountain  road,  and 
we  must  have  reinforcements  soon,  if  they  are  to  be  of  any 
service.  There  !  the  firing  has  commenced  at  the  abatis, 
where  the  road  passes  Sinnipink  Pond.  I  will  return  to 
Fort  Clinton  at  once,  and  do  my  utmost  to  carry  out  the 
measures  we  have  concerted." 

"  God  be  with  you,  brother  !  Hit  hard  and  often,  and 
remember,  we  won't  lower  the  flag  while  we  have  a  foot  of 
ground  to  fight  on  !  How  many  men  did  you  say  were  at 
the  abatis  by  the  pond  ?" 

"  Over  a  hundred." 

"  Let  them  hold  the  point  obstinately.  Time  is  worth 
everything  to  us  now.  Troops  from  Putnam  must  be  here 
soon.      Farewell." 

"  Saville,"  continued  the  governor,  "as  you  have  no 
command,  you  can  serve  me  best  by  acting  as  an  aide. 
Colonels  Bruyn  and  M'Claghrey  are  out  on  the  Orange 
Furnace  road  with  sixty  men.  Tell  Colonel  Livingston  to 
detach  thirty  more  to  their  support.  Take  that  horse  yon- 
der, ride  out,  learn  what  you  can,  and  report  as  soon  as 
possible." 

Saville  urged  the  poor  beast  at  a  tremendous  pace  up  the 
rocky  way  ;  but,  by  the  time  he  reached  the  point  of  con- 
RoE— VIII— I. 


356  NEAR   TO  NATURES  HEART. 

flict,  the  advance  skirmishers  of  the  small  American  force 
had  been  driven  in,  and  Colonel  Campbell,  with  the  assault' 
ing  column,  was  pressing  on  as  rapidly  as  the  narrow  road, 
leading  through  a  wild,  rugged  pass,  permitted.  The 
enemy  paused  a  moment,  as  a  brass  field-piece  sent  a  ball 
plowing  into  their  ranks,  and  then,  with  the  courage  and 
steadiness  of  trained  soldiers,  filed  off,  on  either  side  of  the 
road,  into  the  partial  shelter  of  the  wooded  hill-sides,  and 
pressed  on  as  before,  in  the  face  of  a  brisk  fire  of  small- 
arms.  Their  advance  was  so  rapid,  and  the  road  so  rough 
and  impracticable,  that  it  was  found  impossible  to  extricate 
the  field-piece,  and  it  was  therefore  spiked  and  abandoned. 

With  these  tidings,  Saville  returned  to  the  fort.  But, 
while  present  at  the  affray  over  the  field-piece,  his  attention 
had  been  caught  by  the  occasional  report  of  a  single  rifle 
from  a  shaggy  hill-side,  along  which  he  knew  the  enemy 
must  be  advancing,  and  he  correctly  surmised  that  it  was 
the  exile,  striking  at  the  power  he  so  greatly  dreaded.  Vera's 
dream  and  presentiment  flashed  into  his  mind,  and  he  mut- 
tered, 

"  Poor  child  !  this  firing  no  doubt  causes  her  to  imagine 
that  all  her  forebodings  of  evil  will  come  true.  I  hope  I 
shall  live  to  laugh  her  out  of  such  fancies  for  the  future." 

On  his  way  back  to  the  fort,  he  had  observed  that  Col- 
onel Lamb  had  posted  himself  in  a  commanding  position, 
with  a  twelve-pounder  ;  and  the  veteran  had  grimly  re- 
marked that  they  would  hear  from  him  soon. 

"  Return,  and  request  Colonel  Lamb  to  hold  the  enemy 
in  check  as  long  as  possible.  Then  cross  to  Fort  Clinton, 
and  bring  me  word  how  things  are  going  there.  Good 
God!  Why  doesn't  Putnam  send  me  help.?"  said  Gov- 
ernor  Clinton,  who  was  chafing  like  a  lion  in  the  toils. 

Saville  made  the  fire  fly  along  the  flinty  road,  and  soon 
regained  the  crest  of  the  hill  upon  which  Colonel  Lamb  had 


THE   STORMxNG   GF   THE  FORTS.  257 

posted  himself  with  his  formidable  twelve-pounder.  The 
advance  party,  under  Colonel  Bruyn,  were  marching  around 
to  the  rear  of  the  gun,  within  supporting  distance.  As 
soon  as  the  head  of  the  English  column  showed  itself,  Lamb 
opened  with  the  precision  of  aim  for  which  he  was  famous, 
and  his  quick  firing,  with  the  havoc  which  it  made,  once 
again,  and  more  decidedly,  checked  the  hostile  advance. 

The  sharp-shooters  under  Colonel  Bruyn  were  seeking 
stations  among  the  trees  and  rocks,  from  which  to  gall  the 
enemy  with  small-arms,  and  aid  in  maintaining  the  position, 
when,  unfortunately,  the  cannon  with  which  Colonel  Lamb 
was  doing  so  much  execution  burst  The  British  troops, 
with  a  loud  huzza,  rushed  forward,  and  the  Americans  re- 
treated, fighting,  to  the  fort. 

When  Saville  reached  Fort  Clinton,  the  abatis  at  Lake 
Sinnipink  had  been  carried,  and  such  of  its  defenders  as  had 
not  been  killed  and  disabled  were  retreating  rapidly,  with 
the  enemy  close  upon  them. 

Coolly  walking  the  parapet  of  the  fort,  with  the  bullets 
already  whistling  round  him,  was  the  tall  form  of  Chaplain 
Gano  ;  and  his  intrepid  bearing  had  an  excellent  influence 
on  the  militia,  most  of  whom  were  now,  for  the  first  time, 
to  face  the  dreaded  Hessians,  who  were,  to  many  of  the 
simple  rustics  of  that  day,  monsters  rather  than  men.  Fear- 
ful stories  concerning  them  were  rife,  the  mildest  of  which 
being  that,  as  they  were  unacquainted  with  the  English 
tongue,  they  neither  understood  nor  heeded  offers  of  sur- 
render or  cries  for  mercy  ;  but  bayoneted  indiscriminately 
all  who  fell  into  their  hands. 

The  survivors  of  the  conflict  at  the  abatis  brought  word 
that  these  terrible  Hessians  were  advancing  in  vast  numbers, 
at  which  poor  Larry  so  quaked  that  he  could  scarcely  serve 
his  gun,  and  not  a  few  others  wished  themselves  safe  in 
their  humble  homes.     But   "  Captain   Molly"    rallied  the 


258  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

spirits  and  courage  of  those  near  her,  by  springing  on  the 
rampart,  and  calling,  in  her  shrillest  tones, 

"  Come  on,  Hessians  or  Red-coats  ;  we'll  trate  ye  all 
the  same,  and'll  put  more  bullets  an'  balls  intil  yees  than 
ye' 11  loike  for  supper.  " 

"  Och  I  Molly,  me  darlint,  get  down,"  cried  Larry. 
"  What  wud  we  all  do  an'  ye  shud  sthop  a  Hessian  bullit?" 

But  Molly  recklessly  kept  her  exposed  position,  gesticu- 
lating and  firing  volleys  of  epithets  toward  the  advancing 
foe,  until  ordered  down  by  one  of  the  officers.  She  then 
descended,  amid  the  loud  huzzas  and  laughter  of  scores  of 
poor  fellows  whose  voices  would  soon  be  hushed. 

Having  received  such  message  as  General  James  Clinton 
desired  to  send  to  his  brother,  Saville  galloped  back  to  Fort 
Montgomery,  and  barely  escaped  being  intercepted  by  the 
environing  forces. 

It  was  now  four  o'clock,  and  both  the  forts  were  fairly 
invested.  The  two  brave  men  who  commanded  them  were 
still  hoping  for  aid  from  Putnam,  and  determined  to  make 
as  obstinate  a  resistance  as  their  inadequate  forces  permitted. 

The  enemy  gave  but  brief  respite,  and,  after  a  rapid  dis- 
position of  the  assaulting  columns,  pushed  forward  to  the 
attack.  By  the  aid  of  his  glass,  Saville  could  see  his  old 
acquaintance.  Colonel  Beverly  Robinson,  leading  forward 
many  neighbors  and  fellow  townsmen  whom  he  knew. 

It  was  evident  that  the  enemy  did  not  calculate  upon  a 
very  stubborn  resistance,  and  hoped  to  carry  the  works  by  a 
simultaneous  attack.  Therefore  they  advanced  confidently, 
and  in  imposing  military  array,  expecting  to  awe  and  intimi- 
date the  rustic  soldiery  opposed  to  them.  But  the  terrific 
and  well-directed  fire,  both  of  cannon  and  small-arms,  that 
circled  around  the  ramparts  of  both  the  forts,  soon  taught 
them  their  error,  and  showed  that  the  keys  of  the  High- 
lands could  be  won  only  by  a  bloody  battle. 


THE   STORMING  OF   THE  FORTS.  259 

Again  and  again  they  advanced  to  the  charge,  but  only  to 
be  repulsed  and  driven  back,  strewing  the  broken  and  rocky 
region  with  their  dead  and  wounded. 

An  hour  passed — an  hour  of  bloody,  obstinate  fighting, 
on  both  sides — in  which  many  souls,  hot  with  wrath,  mad 
with  excitement,  passed  away  from  the  scene  of  conflict. 

But,  to  the  scanty  garrison,  the  loss  of  men  was  a  far 
more  serious  matter  than  to  the  full  battalions  of  the  enemy. 
The  lines  of  Fort  Montgomery  were  extensive,  and  but  par- 
tially finished  ;  and  Governor  Clinton  was  able  to  repulse 
all  attacks  thus  far  only  by  good  generalship  and  the  in- 
domitable spirit  of  his  men. 

The  British  officers,  however,  had  by  this  time  gauged 
quite  correctly  the  forces  opposed  to  them,  and  were  satis- 
fied that  they  could  eventually  carry  the  works  by  the  mere 
weight  of  numbers.  In  order  to  save  himself  further  loss, 
Sir  Henry  Clinton  ordered  a  brief  cessation  of  hostilities, 
and  sent  in  a  flag  of  truce,  with  the  dire  threat  that,  unless 
both  the  garrisons  surrendered  within  five  minutes,  he  would 
put  all  to  the  sword. 

Lieutenant-Colonel  Livingston  was  ordered  to  receive  the 
flag,  and  instructed  to  inform  Sir  Henry  Clinton  that  the 
Americans  would  defend  the  forts  to  the  very  last  extremity. 

"  This  putting  everybody  to  the  sword  is  a  game  that  two 
can  play  at,"  remarked  the  governor  grimly.  He  still  had 
hopes  that  a  reinforcement  from  Peekskill  might  arrive  at 
any  moment,  and  felt  sure  that  if  he  could  maintain  the  posi- 
tion until  the  following  day,  he  would  certainly  receive  relief. 

Having  defiantly  refused  to  capitulate,  nothing  now  re- 
mained for  the  garrisons  but  the  most  desperate  resistance. 
As  the  men  in  Fort  Clinton  saw  the  flag  retire  from  the  open 
space  where  the  parley  had  been  held,  they  set  their  teeth, 
and  many  faces  grew  white  and  stern  v/ith  the  determination 
to  sell  life  dearly. 


i6o  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

The  October  day  was  drawing  to  a  close.  The  sky  was 
overcast  with  clouds,  as  if  heaven,  offended  at  the  rude 
clamor  of  earthly  passion,  were  frowning  upon  the  scene. 

As  the  flag  disappeared  within  the  hostile  ranks,  there 
was,  for  a  few  moments,  an  awful  lull  and  suspense.  The 
echoes  of  the  preceding  strife  had  died  away,  and  there  was 
now  an  ominous  and  oppressive  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
groans  of  the  wounded  and  dying.  Then,  from  the  environ- 
ing foe,  came  a  hoarse  and  increasing  murmur  of  rage. 
Commands  and  orders  were  given  rapidly,  and  the  storm  of 
war  broke  forth  more  vehemently  than  before. 

The  British  ships,  under  Admiral  Hotham,  had  now 
come  up  within  range,  and  commenced  bombarding  the 
forts  and  the  American  vessels  that  were  anchored  above  the 
chain  and  chevaux-de-frise,  which  had  been  stretched  across 
the  river  for  the  purpose  of  obstructing  navigation.  The 
conflict  was  thus  raging  upon  the  water  as  well  as  on  the 
shore,  the  heavy  guns  of  each  party  adding  greatly  to  the 
fearful  uproar  resounding  among  the  mountains. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  obscuring  clouds,  and,  in  the 
early  and  deepening  gloom,  the  flashes  from  the  firelocks 
and  cannon  grew  more  lurid  and  distinct,  increasing  the 
terrors  of  the  scene.  The  garrison  of  Fort  Montgomery, 
thinned  by  the  strife  which  had  already  occurred,  and  com- 
pelled to  defend  works  far  too  extensive  and  imperfect,  con- 
sidering its  scanty  number,  was  fighting  heroically,  and  had 
thus  far  repulsed  the  most  determined  assaults.  But  the 
governor's  forces  were  inadequate,  and  the  enemy  were  gain- 
ing and  holding  positions,  in  the  broken  region  in  the  rear 
of  the  fort,  that  were  menacingly  near  the  American  lines. 

At  one  of  these  threatened  points,  Saville,  who  was  sweep- 
ing the  field  with  his  glass,  saw  a  heavy  massing  of  British 
grenadiers,  and  he  directed  the  governor's  attention  thither. 
Lord   Rawdon   was   preparing  for  his  memorable  charge, 


THE   STORMING   OF    THE  FORTS.  26 1 

which,  with  the  supporting  attacks  all  along  the  line,  decided 
the  fate  of  the  day.  As  a  chivalric  volunteer,  at  his  side 
was  his  friend,  the  Count  Gabrouski,  a  Polish  aide-de-camp 
of  Sir  Henry  Clinton. 

The  governor,  for  a  moment,  scanned,  with  a  heavy  frown, 
this  thunderbolt,  whose  shock  he  must  soon  sustain,  and 
then  made  such  disposition  to  receive  it  as  was  possible  in 
the  brief  time  allowed  him. 

"  If  we  do  not  repulse  this  attack,  and  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst,"  he  said  to  Saville,  "cross  to  Fort  Clinton, 
by  the  foot-path,  and  tell  my  brother  not  to  surrender,  but 
cut  his  way  out  among  the  hills.  The  darkness  will  favor 
this." 

Slowly  and  steadily  at  first,  but  with  increasing  speed,  the 
assaulting  column  advanced  through  the  gloom,  becoming 
every  second  more  distinct  and  terrible.  Cannon  and 
musket  balls  made  gaps,  but  the  ranks  closed  up,  leaving 
no  more  trace  than  the  smooth  surface  of  a  smitten  lake. 
The  foremost  fell.  The  point  of  this  human  entering  wedge 
appeared  to  crumble,  as  it  reached  the  fort.  The  tall  Polish 
count  seemed  at  one  moment  a  Homeric  demi-god,  as  he 
was  about  to  spring  across  the  fosse  upon  the  rampart.  A 
second  later,  he  was  a  weak,  dying  man,  with  only  strength 
to  gasp,  to  the  grenadier  who  bent  over  him, 

"  Take  this  sword  to  Lord  Rawdon,  and  tell  him  the 
owner  died  like  a  soldier.  " 

The  American  resistance  was  as  vain  as  it  was  heroic. 
The  assaulting  column,  like  a  black  river,  flowed  steadily 
on,  and  by  its  enormous  weight  alone  pressed  everything 
back. 

"  To  my  brother,  quick,  with   my  message,"   cried  the 
governor  to  Saville  ;  and  by  the  time  Saville  extricated  him- 
self from  the  fort,  a  hand-to-hand  melee  had  commenced. 
In  his  swift  transit  across  the  deep  ravine,  Vera' s  dreara 


262  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

again  occurred  to  him,  with  an  ominous  significance,  and 
his  face  grew  white  and  rigid,  with  the  determination  un- 
waveringly to  meet  the  worst.  But  as,  in  this  moment  of 
soHtude  and  respite  from  the  m.ad  excitement  of  battle,  ha 
realized  his  danger,  and  therefore  hers,  in  her  isolation,  his 
heart  sickened. 

When  he  entered  Fort  Clinton,  the  situation  was  as  des- 
perate as  it  had  been  at  Fort  Montgomery  at  the  moment  o( 
his  departure.  All  was  confusion.  In  the  increasing  dark- 
ness, he  could  not  discover  General  Clinton.  At  several 
points,  the  enemy  seemed  pouring  over  the  ramparts. 
Shouts,  yells,  curses,  groans,  the  clangor  of  weapons,  and 
crash  of  musketry  deafened  and  bewildered  him.  He  also 
noted,  as  proof  that  the  enemy  were  taking  the  fort,  that  all 
firing  of  cannon  had  ceased  on  the  part  of  the  Americans. 
Suddenly  he  heard,  above  the  uproar,  a  shrill  voice,  which 
he  knew  to  be  "  Captain  Molly's,"  crying, 

"  Back,  ye  spalpeen  !     Fire  the  gun." 

•'  Here,  at  least,"  he  thought,  "  must  be  enough  of  our 
troops  to  fonn  a  rallying-point,"  and  drawing  his  sword,  he 
rushed  toward  the  place  from  whence  came  the  voice.  Fugi- 
tives rushed  against  him  ;  a  second  later  he  saw  Larry  break 
from  the  grasp  of  his  wife,  throw  down  his  lighted  match, 
and  fly. 

"  Divil  a  sthep  will  I  rin,  till  that  gun's  fired,"  cried 
Molly,  seizing  the  match  ;  and,  in  the  faces  of  the  enemy, 
who  were  climbing  the  rampart,  she  touched  off  the  las' 
cannon  that  was  discharged  in  Fort  Clinton. 

All  this  passed  in  a  very  few  seconds.  With  a  wild  Irish 
whoop  of  exultation,  Molly  turned  to  escape,  when  a  Hes- 
sian lieutenant  laid  his  iron  grasp  upon  her,  and  raised  his 
heavy  saber  to  strike. 

"  Wretch  !  would  you  kill  a  woman  ?"  cried  Saville,  anc' 
he  ran  the  man  through  the  body. 


THE    STORMING   OF   THE  FORTS.  263 

"  The  Holy  Vargin  bless  ye  !  i\Iisther  Saville,  "  ejaculated 
Molly,  springing  away  like  a  deer,  the  moment  the  grasp 
on  her  arm  relaxed.  But,  looking  back  as  she  ran,  she 
saw  Saville  fall,  from  a  savage  bayonet  thrust  in  his  breast. 
Then,  the  human  wave  that  was  surging  into  the  fort  swept 
over  him.  Under  the  cover  of  darkness,  she  leaped  the 
parapet  on  the  opposite  side,  scrambled  down  the  steep 
bank  into  the  ravine  of  Poplopen  Creek,  and  escaped  wath 
many  other  fugitives,  among  whom  was  General  James 
Clinton,  wounded,  but*indomitable  in  his  purpose  not  to 
fall  into  the  enemy's  hands. 

Governor  Clinton  was  also  among  the  last  to  leave  Fort 
Montgomery,  On  reaching  the  shore  of  the  river,  he  saw 
a  boat  pushing  away,  and  hailed  it.  The  ofiicer  in  charge 
knew  his  voice,  and  caused  the  boat  to  return.  But  it  was 
found  to  be  already  loaded  to  the  gunwale,  and  the  gov- 
ernor  would  not  endanger  the  safety  of  its  occupants  by  en- 
tering it.  The  loyal  officer  generously  offered  to  g^ve  up 
his  place,  but  the  governor,  equally  generous,  would  not 
listen  to  this.  The  enemy  were  pressing  closely,  and  it  was 
agreed  to  try  the  experiment  of  adding  the  weight  of  one 
more,  and,  to  the  joy  of  all,  the  boat  was  still  above  the 
water's  edge.  The  perilous  transit  was  made  in  safet}',  and 
on  the  further  shore  were  found  five  hundred  men,  whom 
the  bewildered  Putnam  had  at  last  sent,  but  too  late  to  be 
of  any  service. 

The  man  Waterburi-,  whom  the  governor  had  dispatched 
to  Peekskill,  had  treacherously  delayed  his  departure,  and, 
on  the  following  day,  deserted  to  the  enemy. 

On  the  capture  of  the  forts,  the  American  vessels  above 
the  chetiaux-de-/rise  slipped  their  cables,  and  tried  to  escape 
up  the  river ;  but  the  wind  was  adverse,  and  their  crews,  to 
avoid  capture,  set  them  on  fire,  and  abandoned  them. 
Then  followed  scenes  that  were  weird  and  awiui  in  the  eS' 


2&4  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

treme,  forming  an  appropriate  close  to  the  bloody  drama  of 
the  day.  By  reason  of  the  clouds,  night  had  come  on  sud- 
denly, and  was  very  dark.  When  the  torches  were  applied 
to  the  ships,  every  sail  was  set,  the  cannon  were  loaded,  and 
there  was  an  abundance  of  ammunition  in  the  magazines. 
In  a  few  moments,  they  became  pyramids  of  fire,  as  the 
flames,  fanned  by  the  gale,  leaped  from  deck  to  mast-head. 
The  rugged,  precipitous  shores  were  lighted  up  as  with  the 
glare  of  noon,  and  the  neighboring  mountains  seemed  like 
a  group  of  giants  standing  around  their  mighty  camp-fires. 

As  the  flames  reached  the  heavy  guns,  they  were  dis- 
charged, not  as  in  battle,  but  irregularly,  fitfully,  as  if  some 
capricious  demon  were  directing  all  in  accordance  with  its 
mad  impulses. 

The  region  where  the  vessels  were  drifting  has  ever  been 
famous  for  its  echoes,  and,  from  the  first,  the  clamor  of  the 
strife  had  been  repeated  and  augmented,  untiJ  it  might  have 
seemed  that  the  combatants  were  innumerable.  But  v/hen 
the  fire  reached  the  magazines  of  the  ships,  volcanic  explo- 
sions followed,  at  which  even  the  granite  hills  appeared  to 
tremble,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  deep  reverberations  never 
would  cease.  Old  Gula,  cowering  in  her  rocky  niche, 
muttered, 

"  Dat's  de  mos'  awful  voice  I'se  eber  heard.  I'se  afeared 
on't." 

The  burning  wrecks  were  at  last  quenched  beneath  the 
water.  After  all,  the  passions  of  men  cannot  long  disturb 
nature's  deep  repose,  and  sof^n  pil^'nce  9nd  night  held  un- 
disputed sway  on  the  liver,  and  among  the  mountains. 


THE    WIFE'S  QUEST  AMONG    THE  DEAD.    265 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

THE  wife's    quest  AMONG    THE  DEAD. 

FOR  a  long  time,  lights  had  glanced  hither  and  thither 
on  the  battle-field  and  within  the  forts,  and,  to  one 
eager  watcher  in  the  distance,  their  movements  had  seemed 
as  erratic  and  meaningless  as  the  glimmer  of  fireflies  in 
June.  The  surgeons,  with  their  assistants,  were  gathering 
up  the  wounded,  and  conveying  them  to  points  where  they 
could  receive  such  attention  as  the  hour  and  pi  ace"  permitted. 

At  last,  Fort  Clinton  was  deserted  by  all  except  an  occa- 
sional sentinel,  and  those  who  still  lay  within  its  walls  were 
very  quiet. 

At  an  early  hour  in  the  evening,  its  parapet,  was  crossed 
by  two  British  officers,  one  of  whom  carried  a  lantern,  and 
seemed  bent  on  an  eager  quest. 

"  I  say,  Vennam,"  asked  his  companion,  *'  why  are  you 
so  anxious  to  find  this  Saville  ?" 

"  For  the  sake  of  his  wife." 

"  Nonsense  !  His  wife  will  shed  no  tears  if  you  find 
him  with  a  bullet  through  his  head.  If  all  is  true  that  I 
have  heard,  she  hates  him  Hke  sin." 

"  Far  more  than  sin,  mon  ami,"  and  the  lantern  that  he 
held  down  that  he  might  peer  into  a  dead  man's  face,  re- 
vealed the  traces  of  recklessness  and  dissipation  in  his  own. 
"  Indeed,  I  scarcely  think  she  hates  sin  at  all.  You  are 
right,  however,  in  one  respect.  No  tears  will  be  shed,  if 
I  can  find  him  in  the  condition  of  this  carrion  here,  unless 


266  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

they  are  tears  of  joy.  Still,  for  her  sake,  I  am  looking  for 
her  husband  ;  and,  I  may  add,  for  my  own.  Knowing 
how  glad  she  would  be  to  find  him  here,  snoozing  quietly 
in  the  eternal  sleep  of  which  he  prates,  I,  as  her  proxy,  am 
looking  for  him,  as  I  promised.  He  is  not  among  the 
wounded  or  prisoners,  as  far  as  I  can  learn  ;  if  I  cannot  find 
him  among  the  dead,  he  must  have  escaped,  and  we  shall 
have  reason  to  curse  our  luck. 

"  Well,  if  you  find  him  here,  and  food  for  the  crows,  what 
then?" 

*'  Then  I  invite  you  to  my  wedding." 

"  Wedding,  indeed  !  I  doubt  that  !  You  are  not  one  to 
trammel  yourself  with  a  wife." 

*'  I  confess  I  have  had  prejudices  against  the  holy  state  of 
matrimony,  but  any  other  relation  with  my  present  lovely 
charm.er  would  involve  half  a  dozen  duels,  and  with  good 
shots.  I  wouldn't  have  a  ghost  of  a  chance  in  running  the 
gauntlet,  and  so  I  must  emulate  the  example  of  the  good 
King  David,  and  get  her  husband  out  of  the  way.  I 
snatched  a  musket  and  fired  at  him  twice  to-day,  but  for 
once  the  devil  did  not  help  his  own. ' ' 

"  By  St.  George  !  Vennam,  I  should  think  the  devil 
would  be  afraid  of  you." 

"Ha!  ha  1  ha!"  was  the  reckless  response.  "Julie 
Saville  x\shburton  is  not,  and  she  is  the  most  magnificent 
creature  I've  ever  seen,  and  I've  been  something  of  a  con- 
noisseur in  several  lands.  Besides,  she's  an  heiress,  which, 
to  a  man  of  my  tastes,  is  no  small  consideration." 

"  By  St.  George  !  Vennam,  this  turning  up  of  dead 
men's  faces  is  grim  business.     I'm  getting  sick  of  it." 

"  Well,  well  I  you  are  not  playing  for  the  stake  that  I 
am,  so  I  don't  wonder.  Perhaps  I  may  find  him  in  the 
morning.  Hold  !  who  is  that  lying  behind  yonder  big 
Hessian  ?     That's  an  officer's  uniform.     O  ye  Plutonian 


THE    WIFE'S   QUEST  AMONG    THE  DEAD.    267 

gods  !  here  he  is  !  dead,  too,  as  the  immortal  Caesar.  That 
bayonet-thrust  would  have  killed  an  ex.  Here's  to  thee, 
Julie,  and  our  wedding-bells  ;"  and,  drawing  a  flask  of 
wine  from  his  pocket,  he  drank  deeply,  and  then  passed  it 
to  his  companion. 

"  And  will  the  bells  be  rung  soon  ?" 
-  "  Ay,  that  much  we  shall  make  her  proud  relations  yield. 
Up  to  a  certain  point,  she  always  has  her  own  way.  A 
soldier's  life  is  too  uncertain  to  wait  upon  the  slow  forms 
of  decorous  custom.  Besides,  in  this  case,  there  will  be  no 
*  funeral  baked  meats '  to  grow  cold.  There,  I'  11  take  his 
sword,  if  I  can  \^nthdraw  it  from  this  beastly  Hessian,  and 
that  will  be  proof  positive  that  I  saw  him  dead.  Farewell, 
now,  most  accommodating  of  husbands  I  your  sleep  may 
be  as  '  eternal '  as  you  like  ;"  and  the  human  ghoul,  who 
had  been  feasting  his  eyes  on  the  dead,  disappeared,  in  the 
-darkness,  toward  Fort  Montgomery. 


Z6S  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

vera's  search  among  the  dead. 

THE  Sunday  evening  following  the  departure  of  Saville 
had  been  to  Vera  one  of  peculiar  sadness  and  de- 
pression. "  If  I  only  had  my  dear  old  Bible,"  she  thought, 
"  and  could  turn  to  some  of  God's  promises,  perhaps  they 
would  comfort  and  reassure  me  ;  but,  in  a  way  that  I  can- 
not understand,  they  have  grown  vague,  and  He  seems  far 
off." 

Still,  she  again  and  again  tried  to  lift  her  heart  to  heaven 
in  prayer  ;  but  the  image  of  Saville  would  enter,  and  absorb 
every  thought,  and  the  presentiment  of  some  evil  or  danger 
weighed  down  her  spirits  with  increasing  despondency. 

The  night  passed  mainly  in  sleepless  imaginings  of  what 
might  happen  ;  but,  with  the  light  of  Monday  morning,  she 
tried  to  throw  off  the  incubus,  and  busy  herself  with  the  tasks 
which  she  knew  were  pleasing  to  him. 

She  noted  that  her  father  appeared  restless,  and  that  he  at 
last  took  his  rifle,  and  disappeared  among  the  hills. 

About  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  she  thought  she  heard, 
faint  and  far  away,  the  report  of  fire-arms,  but  tried  to 
ascribe  the  impression  to  her  over-wrought  and  anxious 
state.  But  when  the  skirmishing  commenced  on  the  Orange 
Furnace  road,  and  there  was  no  longer  room  for  doubt,  her 
heart  sank,  with  such  an  overwhelming  foreboding  of  evil, 
that  she  almost  fainted. 

But  her  native  vigor  and  her  strong  affection  for  Saville 
soon  banished  all  weakness.     If  her  presentiment  had  any 


VERA'S  SEARCH  AMONG    THE  DEAD.  269 

foundation,  it  might  be  that  even  her  hand  could  reach  and 
minister  to  him.  While  Vera  had  inherited  her  mother's 
gentleness,  she  also  had  her  readiness  to  suffer  anything  for 
the  sake  of  one  she  loved. 

Summoning  Tascar,  she  bade  him  prep)are  at  once  to  ac- 
company her  toward  Fort  Montgomery. 

"  Take  a  small  ax,  some  food,  and  materials  for  kindling 
a  fire,"  she  said. 

At  the  same  time  she  herself  took  some  bandages,  a  flask 
of  brandy  that  Saville  had  brought,  and  (what  seemed  a 
Strange  act  in  so  gentle  a  maiden)  she  also  concealed,  in  the 
folds  of  her  dress,  a  keen-bladed  hunting-knife. 

"  God  grant  I  may  have  no  use  for  this  !"  she  sighed  ; 
*'  but  I  have  been  taught  what  some  men  are," 

By  the  time  that  the  first  report  of  the  field-piece  was 
echoing  through  the  mountains,  they  were  on  their  way. 

With  a  boldness  which  greatly  taxed  poor  Tascar' s  cour- 
age, she  approached  so  near  the  fort,  that  two  or  three  half- 
spent  cannon  balls  splintered  the  rocks  a  little  below  her 
hidden  outlook.  Her  eyes  dilated  with  horror,  as  she 
watched  the  bloody  conflict  that  was  taking  place  aim.ost  at 
her  feet.  Her  keen  eyesight  enabled  her  to  see  men  falling 
within  the  fort,  as  the  strong  north  wind  swept  aside  the 
smoke.  At  times  she  could  scarcely  resist  the  wild  impulse 
to  rush  through  the  rank^  of  the  inter\'ening  enemy,  and 
assure  herself  that  Saville  was  not  among  those  who  lay 
motionless  within  the  ramparts,  or  who  were  being  carried  to 
a  more  sheltered  position.  Soon  all  became  dusky  and 
obscure  in  the  early  descending  night.  The  lurid  flashes 
grew  more  distinct,  and  these  indicated  that  the  besiegers 
were  drawing  continually  nearer  the  besieged.  As  the  lines 
of  fire  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  she  pressed  her  hands  upon 
her  throbbing  heart.  Then  there  came  a  great  s:iOut  With 
lips  parted,  and  eyes  wild  with  terror,  she  sprang  to  the  edg© 


270  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEaRT. 

of  the  cliff.  A  dark  mass  was  entering  the  fort.  The  flashes 
became  intermingled,  irregular  ;  they  receded  toward  the 
river  and  the  northeast  side  of  the  fort,  and  at  last  ceased. 

She  sat  down,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  she 
moaned  shudderingly, 

"  He  is  lying  yonder,  bleeding  or  dying.  I  feel  it — I 
know  it !     O  Tascar  !  what  shall  we  do  ?' ' 

But  the  poor  boy  could  give  no  advice  in  this  emergency. 
Voices  approached,  and  soon  a  stream  of  fugitives  escap- 
ing to  the  mountains  began  to  pass  near  where  they  had 
posted  themselves. 

"  Quick,  Tascar  !"  said  Vera.  "  Let  us  go  to  the  edge 
of  the  path.  You  ask  for  Mr.  Saville,  and  say  you  are  hi? 
servant.     I  will  hide  within  hearing.  " 

This  plan  was  at  once  carried  out. 

"  O  God  !  grant  that  he  may  be  among  these  who  hav» 
survived,"  she  sighed. 

In  response  to  Tascar' s  eager  questions,  several  replied 
that  they  had  seen  Saville  during  the  fight,  but  did  not  know 
where  he  was  now. 

The  last  weary  and  wounded  straggler  seemingly  had 
passed,  and  Vera's  hope  was  dying,  when  another  step  was 
heard,  and  a  woman's  voice  was  heard  complaining.' 

"  I  hope  poor  Larry's  aloive.  I've  tried  so  long  to  foind 
him,  I've  got  ahint  all  the  rest." 

"  O  Captain  Molly  !"   began  Tascar. 

"  Och  1  ye  spalpeen  ;  how  ye  stharted  me.  Me  nervea 
Is  all  shuck  up  1" 

"  But,  hab  you  seen  Mas'r  Saville  ?" 

' '  Is  ye  the  little  nig  he  had  a  few  days,  and  thin  sent  off 
in  the  mountings  ?' ' 

"  Yeh  ;  and  I  wants  to  find  him  po'ful  bad." 

"I'm  sorry  to  tell  ye,  I'm  afeard  ye  won't.  God  rest 
his  sowl  I" 


VERA'S  SEARCH  AMOMG    THE  DEAD.  27 » 

With  a  wild  cry,  Vera  sprang  out,  and  grasped  the  wom- 
an's arm. 

"  Speak  ;  what  do  you  mean  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  Holy  Vargin  !"  gasped  Molly.  "  I  thought  yees  was 
a  cat  o'  the  mountings.  Be  ye  the  one  they  call  the  white 
witch?" 

"  No  ;  I'm  a  poor,  orphaned  girl  ;  and  Mr,  Saville  was 
my  brother — my  only  friend.  Tell  me,  have  you  seen 
him?" 

"  Now,  bless  the  poor  young  crather's  heart,  what  kin  I 
tell  her?"  groaned  Molly,  turning  away  and  beginning  to 
sob. 

"  You  have  told  me  all,"  said  Vera,  feeling  as  if  turning 
mto  stone.      "  He  is  dead." 

'•  I'm  afeard  he  is,  unless  the  saints  has  kept  him  aloive 
for  the  good  turn  he  did  for  sich  a  poor  wicked  divil  as  I 
be.  He  saved  me  life— he  kilt  the  big  Hessian  as  was 
killin'  me — ochone,  ochone  !"  and  Molly,  in  the  exuber- 
ance of  her  feeling,  sat  down,  and  rocking  herself  back  and 
forth,  uttered  a  wild  Irish  waii  of  sorrow. 

Vera's  face  grew  almost  as  rigid  as  the  granite  on  which 
she  stood.     After  a  few  moments  she  said, 

"  You  say  he  saved  your  life  ?" 

"  He  did,  ochone  !  he  did,  God  rest  his  sow]  !" 

"  If  any  one  had  saved  my  life,"  continued  Vera,  in  a 
tone  that  was  almost  taunting,  "  I  would  not  sit  down  and 
weakly  whine  about  him." 

"  Now  what  do  ye  mane  by  that  r"  cried  Molly,  starting 
up,  and  dashing  away  her  tears. 

"  I  mean  that  if  he  saved  your  life,  you  ought  to  be  will- 
ing to  try  to  save  his.  You  are  a  strong  woman,  and  hav© 
lived  among  soldiers  ;  but  I  will  see  if  you  are  as  brave  m 
a  timid  young  girl.  Will  you  go  with  me,  and  bring  him 
away,  dead  or  alive  ?" 


2  73  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  P'aix  an'  I  will,"  cried  Molly  sturdily.  "  I  loikes  this 
betther'n  cryin'  about  him.  Besides,  I  know  jist  where  to 
look  for  him.  Tt  was  behint  Larry's  gun  he  fell,  and  I  could 
go  there  wid  me  eyes  blinded.  What's  more,  no  gal,  nor 
man  nayther,  dares  do  what  Molly  O'Flarharty  darsent. " 

But  Captain  Molly's  heroic  fire  was  suddenly  quenched 
for  a  few  moments  ;  for  Vera  threw  herself  upon  her  neck, 
with  sobs  that  caused  the  young  girl's  slight  frame  to  quiver 
almost  convulsively. 

•'  Ye  poor  little  tender-hearted  crather,"  said  Molly,  cry- 
ing in  sympathy  ;  "  yees  jist  as  human  as  1  be  ;  and  I,  like 
a  pig-headed  fool,  was  a-thinkin'  ye  was  a  witch  !  Yees  isn't 
able  to  go  on  any  sich  dare-divil  irrend  as  snatchin'  a  body 
out  o'  the  jaws  of  that  orful  baste  they  call  the  British  lion." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Vera,  growing  calm.  "  I  shall 
be  the  better  for  these  tears.  I  am,  indeed,  but  a  weak 
child  ;  but  for  Mr.  Saville  I  could  die  a  thousand  deaths. 
Come." 

"  Well,"  said  Molly,  with  a  shrug,  "  it's  only  honest  ii» 
me  to  risk  one  life  for  him,  afther  what  he  did  for  me.  S* 
I'm  wid  ye." 

'•  You  hab  been  kind  to  my  ole  mudder, "  said  Tascar, 
"  and  I'll  go  wid  you,  too.  Mas'r  Saville  is  po'lul  heavy, 
and'll  take  a  sight  ob  liftin'.  " 

"  We  must  wait  a  bit,"  said  Molly,  "till  them  Britishers 
git  the  wounded  gathered  in.  That's  what  they  are  doin' 
now  where  them  lights  is  movin'  'round." 

"But  they  will  carry  him  off  to  die  somewhere  else," 
cried  Vera,  in  great  distress. 

"No,  child  ;  if  they  carry  him  off,  the  docthers'll  take 
care  of  him.  So,  if  we  doesn't  find  him  by  the  gun,  ye  kin 
comfort  yer  heart  wid  the  thought  that  he's  doin'  well  some- 
where. If  we  shud  go  down  there  now,  before  they  all  git 
aslape,  they  wud  treat  us  moighty  oncivil. " 


FERA'S   SEARCH  AMONG    THE   DEAD.  273 

**  You  are  right,"  said  Vera.  "  But  it  is  desperately  hard 
to  wait. " 

"We  hain't  ready  to  go  yit,"  continued  Molly.  "We 
must  thry  to  rig  up  sumthin'  to  carry  him  on,  or  else  I'll 
have  to  stale  a  stretcher  down  there,  and  that  may  be  risky. ' ' 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,''  said  Vera,  catching  the 
thought  quick  as  light.  "  With  Tascar's  help,  I  can  soon 
make  one.     Tascar,  cut  two  long  straight  poles." 

While  the  boy  was  obeying.  Vera  drew  her  hunting  knife, 
and  feeling  around  among  the  copse- wood,  selected  tough 
and  very  slender  young  saplings.  Having  secured  a  suffi- 
cient number,  she  twisted  them  back  and  forth  across  the 
poles,  and  secured  them  in  their  places  with  some  fibrous 
bark,  which  she  was  not  long  in  discovering.  Never  did 
her  thorough  wood-craft  serve  a  better  purpose  than  in  this 
emergency. 

"  Ye' re  a  m.oighty  handy  little  thing,"  said  Molly. 
"  When  did  ye  learn  all  these  things  ?" 

"  My  heart  would  teach  my  hands  to  do  anything  that  is 
needful  to-night.     Can  we  not  go  now  .?" 

"  Not  jist  yet.     Sit  down  and  rest  yerself.  " 

"As  if  I  could  rest !  Oh  !  do  let  us  go.  It  will  be  a 
comfort  to  get  a  few  inches  nearer.  What  a  wild  night  it 
promises  to  be  !      '  The  bleak  winds  do  sorely  ruffle. '  " 

"  All  the  betther  for  us  !  There'll  not  be  so  many  abroad. 
They're  gittin'  quiet,  an'  I  think  we  may  stale  up  a  bit 
toward  the  place  now.  We've  got  to  take  quite  a  woide 
turn,  anyhow,  to  git  around  the  creek,  for  they'll  have 
guards  at  the  bridges.  I  know  a  place  down  here  on  the 
right,  where  we  kin  git  over." 

The  strangely  assorted  group  now  started  on  their  most 
perilous  adventure,  Molly  leading,  because  familiar  with 
the  region,  and  Tascar  bringing  up  the  rear  with  the  rude 
but  strong  stretcher  which  Vera  had  improvised.     Molly's 


274  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

early  years  had  made  her  perfectly  familiar  with  the  wild 
mountain  region  through  which  they  must  find  a  path,  and 
she  threaded  her  way  quite  as  readily  as  Vera  would  have 
done  in  her  own  haunts. 

"  I've  fished  up  and  down  this  creek  often  enough  to 
know  every  inch  of  it,"  said  Molly,  who  was  now  as  eager 
to  serve  Vera  as  she  had  once  been  to  get  her  into  trouble, 
for  being  so  "  stuck  up  an'  oncivil  loike  ;"  and  she  was 
not  long  in  leading  her  little  party  to  a  place  where  the 
shallow  stream  could  be  easily  crossed.  Then  they  ascended 
the  further  bank  by  a  slanting  path  that  led  toward  Fort 
Clinton. 

"  We  must  git  well  up  on  the  hill,"  said  Molly,  "  for 
they  won't  be  a-lookin'  for  anybody  on  the  mounting  sides, 
and  thin  we  kin  crape  intil  the  fort  right  by  Larry's  gun. 
Ochone,  Larry,  me  darlint !  I've  been  kind  o'  rough  on  ye 
sometoimes,  an'  if  we  both  git  through  this  wild  night's 
work,  I'll  thry  to  be  more  aisy  on  ye.  I  tell  you  what  'tis. 
Miss  Brown,  when  ye' re  '  'twixt  the  divil  an'  the  dape  say,' 
as  I've  heerd  some  o'  the  sailor  sogers  spake,  ye  think  on 
ivery  oncivil  thing  ye  iver  said  or  did.  May  all  the  saints 
be  wid  us  !  Faix,  an'  they  ought  to  be  !"  she  concluded, 
with  sudden  emphasis.  "  Ain't  we  a-thryin'  to  do  as  good 
a  job  as  they  iver  did  ?" 

By  this  time  Molly  had  reached  the  end  of  her  theology, 
and  exhausted  her  sentiment ;  but  her  practical  energies  and 
shrewdness  seemed  inexhaustible.  With  firm  yet  stealthy 
tread,  she  led  them  down  into  the  neighborhood  of  the  fort, 
and  her  familiarity  with  military  life  enabled  her  to  suspect 
just  where  guards  and  sentinels  would  be  placed. 

"  Their  fires  show  that  they're  down  toward  the  river, 
loike,"  she  whispered  ;  "an'  that's  good  for  us,  too.  If 
they  git  afther  us,  we  must  cut  roight  back  on  the  path  we 
come,  as  no  one  could  foller  it  who  didn't  know  it.     No^; 


VERA'S  SEARCH  AMONG    THE  DEAD.         275 

Step  loight,  an'  keep  yer  mouths  shut,  for  we're  gittin'  tick- 
lish near. ' ' 

Fortunately,  the  early  part  of  the  night  was  so  dark  that 
they  must  have  stumbled  immediately  upon  some  one  to  be 
observed.  As  they  approached  quite  near  the  fort,  they 
heard  a  sentinel  walking  his  beat.  As  his  steps  receded 
they  slipped  by,  and  sprang  down  into  the  ditch  under  the 
parapet,  and  then  crouched  a  few  moments,  scarcely  daring 
to  breathe. 

"  Give  me  yer  knife,"  whispered  Molly.  "  I've  stuck 
many  a  pig  in  my  day,  an'  I'll  stick  a  Hessian — yes,  two 
or  three  on  'em — afore  they'll  git  sich  a  holt  on  me  as  that 
big  feller  had  as  is  lyin'  dead  over  there." 

Vera  shuddered,  but  complied, 

"  Now,"  continued  Molly,  slowly  rising,  "  let  me  git  my 
bearin's,  so  we  kin  climb  in  jist  beside  Larry's  gun." 

The  dark  outline  of  the  mountain  soon  satisfied  her  how 
to  proceed,  and  she  said,  "  Come  around  this  way  a  bit. " 

Stumbling,  with  thrills  of  horror,  over  the  dead  that  lay  in 
the  fosse.  Vera  followed.     Suddenly  Molly  whispered, 

"  Hist,  down  !" 

Footsteps  approached,  but  died  away  again, 

"  Now  wait  a  bit  where  ye  are,  I  think  this  is  the  gun, 
and  kin  tell  soon  as  I  fale  of  it.  Ah  !  ye  ould  bulldog, 
this  is  ye,  thrue  anuff,  I  made  ye  bite  'em  the  last  toime, 
didn't  I,  ye  good  ould  baste.?" 

Vera  was  at  her  side  instantly,  whispering,  ' '  Was  it  here 
he  fell .''  Oh  !  quick,  quick  !  I  cannot  endure  this  sus- 
pense a  moment  longer." 

"  Not  too  fast,  or  we  may  spoil  iverythin'  yit.  I'llcloimb 
up  this  side  o'  the  gun,  an  ye  on  that  side.  Let  the  bhoy 
bide  down  here  till  we  call  him.  Aisy  loike,  now, ' '  she 
cautioned,  as  Vera,  with  a  bound,  was  up  beside  the  can* 
non.      "  Let  us  look  over  and  listen." 


476  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEARt 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

THE    WOMAN    IN    VERA    AWAKES. 

IN  falling,  Saville  was  not  so  stunned  but  that  he  h&<i 
sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  niake  the  huge  Hessiaa 
he  had  killed  a  sort  of  rampart  against  the  thronging  enemy, 
and  the  man  who  had  bayoneted  him  was  carried  forward 
with  the  impetuous  advance  of  the  victors.  He  was  well 
content  to  be  somewhat  trampled,  instead  of  receiving  an* 
other  thrust  which  would  pin  him  to  the  earth. 

Almost  his  first  thought  was,  '*  Vera's  dream  comes  trua 
I  am  desperately  wounded,  perhaps  dying  ;  and  she,  pool 
child,  in  sad  truth,  can  never  find  me  here. ' ' 

As  the  rush  of  battle  swept  away  elsewhere,  so  that  h« 
could  venture  to  move,  he  tried,  by  feeling,  to  learn  th« 
nature  of  his  wound,  and  found,  with  a  thrill  of  hope,  thai 
a  thick  memorandum-book  in  his  breast-pocket  had  caused 
the  bayonet  to  glance  from  his  vitals  into  his  shoulder,  in* 
flicting  what  seemed  only  a  flesh  wound. 

He  soon  became  aware,  however,  that  it  was  a  deep  one, 
and  that  he  was  losing  blood  rapidly.  His  main  hope  no\« 
was,  that  he  might  not  become  unconscious  before  the  sur- 
geons gathered  up  the  wounded  ;  and  yet  he  now  dared 
show  no  sign  of  life,  or  assume  any  position  that  would 
attract  notice  ;  for  the  brutal  Hessian  soldiery  were  raging 
around  the  fort,  often  striking  down  the  wounded  who 
begged  for  mercy  ;  so  he  turned  over  upon  his  face,  and 
thus  passed  for  one  of  the  dead.     When  it  became  evident 


THE    WOMAN  AV    VERA   A  WAKES.  277 

to  the  British  officers  that  all  resistance  was  over,  they  called 
off  the  "  dogs  of  war,"  and  soon  none  were  left  near  Saville 
except  those  as  helpless  as  himself.  He  now  ventured  to 
turn  over  again,  and  then  tried  to  sit  up,  but  found  himself 
too  weak. 

Xot  far  away,  he  heard  a  wounded  man  repeating  to  him- 
self the  text  the  chaplain  had  chosen  the  previous  evening  : 

"  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life  ;  he  that  believeth  in 
me.  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live  : 

"  And  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me  shall  never 
die. 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  Saville;  "believing  that,  he 
can  die  easily,  and,  after  ceasing  to  be,  can  have  no  dis- 
appointment over  his  illusion.  And  yet,  situated  as  v/e  are, 
one  might  well  wish  that  it  were  all  true.  Oh  !  that  a  sur- 
geon would  come." 

The  surgeon  v>'as  coming,  but  his  blood  and  strength 
were  ebbing  fast.  In  the  fierce  excitement  of  the  day,  he 
had  eaten  scarcely  anything  ;  and  this  abstinence,  together 
with  his  previous  night  of  toil  and  the  loss  of  blood,  made 
a  feaiful  drain  upon  his  vital  powers.  When,  a  little  later, 
the  light  of  a  lantern  was  carelessly  fiashed  upon  his  pallid 
face,  the  man  who  held  it  muttered,  "  He's  done  for, "  and 
passed  on  to  those  giving  signs  of  life. 

The  deep  swoon  lasted  while  his  wife's  lover  feasted  his 
murderous  eyes  upon  him. 

Had  Vera's  prayers  received  no  answer  .'  Why  had  he 
seemed  like  the  dead,  when  a  man  stood  over  him  who 
would  have  stamped  out  tke  faintest  apparent  spark  of  life  ? 
Why  does  he  revive  again,  now  that  Vera  is  stealing  toward 
the  fort  ? 

Slowly  he  became  conscious  of  what  had  happened,  of 
his  desperate  situation.  He  felt  that  the  deep  sighs  that 
heaved  his  breast  caused  the  slight  remnant  of  his  blood  to 


P-jS  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

ooze  more   rapidly.      He  was  now  sure   that  he  would 
die. 

"Poor  mother!"  he  groaned.  "Dear,  kind  mother! 
you  will  have  a  dreary  old  age.  " 

A  light  step  was  gliding  swiftly  toward  him. 

"  0  Vera  !"  he  murmured  ;  "  my  more  than  sister,  my 
heart's  true  mate  !  How  can  I  enter  on  my  long*  dream- 
less sleep,  and  leave  you  waking  and  suffering?" 

She  knelt  beside  him,  sobbing. 

"  Theron,  I  have  found  you  !     Thank  God  !" 

•'  Is  this  real  ?"   he  said,  in  a  husky  voice. 

'*  It  is — feel  my  warm  hand  ;  it's  strong  as  a  man's  to 
rescue  you  !  There  are  others  here  to  help.  Courage  S 
O  God  1  spare  him,  spare  him,  or  let  me  die  also  J" 

*'  Hist,  aisy  now,"  warned  Molly.  "  Kapeall  yees  perty 
sayins  till  we're  out  o'  this  divil's  nest  o'  Hessians,  Give 
him  some  brandy,  while  I  call  the  bhoy  wid  the  sthretcher." 

As  Vera  put  the  flask  to  his  lips,  she  v/hispered, 

"  You  will  live  ;  yon  will  not  die,  and  break  my  heart?" 

"  If  mind  has  any  power  over  matter,  I  will  live,"  he 
said  doggedly,  ' '  and  more  for  your  sake  than  my  own. 
From  henceforth  my  life  is  yours,  my  peerless  Vera.  How, 
in  the  name  of  wonder,  have  you  reached  me  ?" 

"  Don't  speak  now.  Save  every  atom  of  strength.  Lay 
the  stretcher  here,  Tascar.  Lift  him  gently  now  with  me." 
And,  as  if  endowed  with  tenfold  her  usual  power,  she  put 
her  arms  under  his  shoulders,  and  lifted  him  on  the  green 
boughs  that  she  had  twined  for  the  purpose. 

' '  You  are  an  angel  of  mercy, ' '  said  Saville. 

"  Hush!    Now,  Molly!" 

"  Git  out  o'  the  way,  ye  bloody  spalpeen  !"  snarled 
Molly,  giving  the  poor  Hessian  whom  Saville  had  slain  a 
contemptuous  push  with  her  foot.  "I'm  glad  ye  got  yes 
desarts, ' ' 


THE   WOMAN  IN   VERA   AWAKES.  279 

With  some  difficulty  they  made  thek  way  over  the  parapet 
and  fosse  with  their  burden,  and  then  started  rapidly  for  the 
hills.  When  a  little  beyond  the  sentinel,  Tascar  stepped 
on  a  dry  stick,  which  cracked  sharply. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?"  challenged  the  sentinel  instantly. 

**  Whist  I  let  the  stretcher  down  a  minute.  If  he  comes 
to  see,  ril  fix  him  ;"  and  she  went  back  a  few  feet,  and 
crouched  like  a  panther  at  the  side  of  the  path. 

As  there  were  no  fur*'  -'r  sounds,  the  man  evidently 
thought  that  it  was  some  animal  in  the  woods,  and  con- 
tinued walking  his  beat. 

With  throbbing  hearts  and  stealthy  tread,  they  again 
pressed  on,  Molly  following,  with  the  hunting-knife,  as  a 
sort  of  rear-guard  ;  and  they  soon  breathed  freer,  with  a 
growing  sense  of  security. 

"  Let  me  spell  ye  now,"  said  Molly  to  Vera.  "I've  got 
a  stronger  back,  if  not  a  stouther  heart,  than  yees." 

They  were  not  very  long  in  reaching  the  place  where  the 
ax,  provisions,  and  material  for  kindling  a  fire  had  been  left, 
Vera  took  up  these,  and  for  an  hour  they  toiled  en,  wife 
frequent  rests.  Saville  often  essayed  to  speak,  but  Vera  en- 
joined silence,  and,  when  he  grew  faint,  she  put  the  flask  to 
his  lips. 

At  last  they  found  a  secluded  place,  quite  out  of  the 
course  that  any  of  the  fugitives  would  take,  and  hidden  from 
the  enemy  in  the  forts  by  intervening  hills.  A  brook  ran 
near,  and  Saville' s  thirst  was  growing  very  painful.  Vera 
thought  they  might  venture  to  rest  here,  and  kindle  a  fire. 
They  were  all  desperately  weary,  and  in  need  of  food. 
Saville,  also,  was  growing  so  weak  that  he  might  again  be* 
come  unconscious.  Vera  asked  Molly  to  help  Tascar  gathei 
dry  wood,  saying  that  she  would  wait  on  Mr.  Saville,  fof 
she  esteemed  this  so  great  a  privilege  that  she  was  unwilling 
to  share  it 

Roe— Vni— M 


sBo  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  Never  was  there  such  music,  excepting  your  voice, 
Vera,  as  the  babble  of  that  brook, ' '  said  Saville  feebly.  ' '  I 
have  heard  of  the  thirst  of  the  wounded,  but  did  not  know 
what  it  was  before. ' ' 

Taking  a  cup  from  the  bundle  she  had  carried  Vera  soon 
placed  a  cool  draught  to  his  lips.  He  held  her  hand,  as  he 
drank  eagerly. 

"  Oh  !  that  gives  me  life,"  he  said.  "  Did  you  mutter 
any  potent  words  over  this  cup  ?" 

*'  My  every  breath  is  a  prayer  for  you,"  she  said. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  answering  your  own  pray- 
ers, my  sweet  divinity.  I  shall  worship  you  while  I  have 
breath  to  pray  or  praise. " 

"  Your  mind  is  wandering,  Mr,  Saville." 

"  Never  from  you." 

"  Hush  !  you  must  not  talk." 

"  Like  all  other  devotees,  I  find  it  easier  to  worship  than 
to  obey." 

"  Please  don't  speak  in  this  manner,  Mr.  Saville,  I  am 
so  grateful  to  God  for  having  spared  you  that  your  words 
pain  me," 

"  And  I  am  so  grateful  to  you  that  I  can  scarcely  find 
words  that  mean  enough.  May  1  live  to  show  you  how  I 
feel  1     Do  not  call  me  Mr,  Saville  any  more, " 

"  Do  you  not  think  I  had  better  try  to  dress  your  wound 
by  the  light  of  the  fire,  Theron  .?' ' 

"  Yes,  do  ;  your  very  touch  is  healing," 

She  took  out  her  bandages,  and  bade  Tascar  heap  light 
wood  on  the  fire.  Then,  laying  her  sharp  hunting-knife 
within  reach,  she  set  about  her  delicate  and  difficult  task. 
But  her  beautiful  face,  as  she  bent  over  him,  revealed  only 
the  deepest  solicitude  for  him,  and  not  a  particle  of  embar- 
rassing self-consciousness.  She  first  took  from  his  pocket  the 
torn  and  deeply  indented  little,  memorandum-book. 


THE   WOMAN  IN  VERA  AWAKES.  «8l 

**Theron, "  she  exclaimed,  "  this  saved  your  life  1" 

*'  I  think  it  did.  It  was  fortunate  that  it  was  SK  that 
pocket  instead  of  the  other. ' ' 

**  Fortunate  !  Oh  !  why  do  you  use  such  meaningless 
words  ?  It  was  so  much  more  than  fortunate  I  Will  you 
give  the  book  to  me  ?' ' 

"Yes," 

She  pressed  her  lips  upon  it,  and  hid  it  in  her  bosom. 

Then  Molly  and  Tascar  were  surprised  to  hear  Saville's 
audible  laugh,  but  tears  were  in  Vera's  eyes. 

"Alack!"  she  sighed,  dashing  them  away;  "I  am  a 
foolish  child,  and  not  equal  to  this  work.  I  must  cut  your 
coat,  Theron." 

"  Yes,"  said  he  ;  "  pass  your  knife  up  my  sleeve  ;  cut 
all  away  around  my  throat.  It  will  not  do  for  me  to  move 
much.  I  can  direct  you  somewhat,  for  I  know  a  little  of 
surgery.  On  entering  the  service  I  foresaw  wounds,  but  no 
each  blissful  experience  as  this. " 

"  Only  speak  in  directing  me,"  said  Vera,  deftly  doing 
his  bidding.  "  Oh  I  what  an  awful  gash  1"  and  for  a 
moment  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  going  to  live,  Vera.  I  feel  it  in  every 
nerve  and  fiber  of  my  body.     How  does  the  cut  run  ?' ' 

"  Across  the  upper  part  of  your  breast,  into  your 
shoulder. ' ' 

"  You  see  it  is  a  flesh  wound  merely.  Remove  only  the 
clots  of  blood  that  prevent  you  from  pressing  the  sides  of 
the  cut  together.  Now  bandage  as  tightly  as  you  can 
around  my  shoulder.  There,  that  is  right.  How  infinitely 
different  your  touch  is  from  that  of  a  half-drunk  British 
surgeon  !  Suppose  that  in  your  place,  my  dainty  Ariel, 
my  ministering  spirit,  a  broad-faced  Hessian  butcher  were 
bending  over  me,  bungling  away  with  fingers  as  hard  as 
his   heart  i      That  will  do.     Now  cover  all  up  well,   so 


282  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

theie  may  be  no  danger  of  my  taking  cold,  and  then  rest 
you  rseif ,  ' 

"  I  will  rest  when  you  are  out  of  danger.  You  must  take 
some  food  now. '  * 

"  Not  much.     We  must  run  no  risk  of  inflammation." 

Again  she  brought  water  from  the  brook,  and  dipping  the 
hard,  dry  bread  into  it,  fed  him  as  she  would  a  child.  She 
saw  that  his  head  did  not  rest  comfortably,  and  so  she  lifted 
it  gently  into  her  lap,  But,  as  she  did  so,  there  came  a 
warmer  glow  into  her  face  than  the  ruddy  firelight  war- 
ranted. 

"  I  will  waken  you,"  she  said,  "  when  it  is  time  to  re« 
same  our  journey  home. " 

"  Home  !  How  sweet  that  word  sounds,  as  you  speak 
it!" 

"  Hush  1  hush  !" 

"  Well,  then,  good-night.  Vera.  This  is  not  the  dream- 
less sleep  that  I  was  dreading  in  Fort  Clinton."  And 
almost  instantly  he  sank  into  quiet  slumber. 

Molly  and  Tascar,  as  soon  as  they  found  that  they  could 
do  nothing  more  to  serve  Vera,  had  thrown  themselves  down 
by  the  fire,  and  were  soon  in  deep  oblivion.  But  the  young 
girl,  with  eyes  as  clear  and  steady  as  the  stars  which  now 
shone  brightly,  watched  through  the  silent  hours. 

She  had  never  had  less  inclination  to  sleep.  There  was 
a  strange,  delicious  tumult  in  her  heart.  She  thought  it 
was  gladness  and  gratitude  for  Saville's  escape.  She  thought 
it  was  hope  for  the  future.  She  would  understand,  by-and- 
by,  that  it  was  far  more.  A  hand  was  on  the  door  of  the 
inner  chamber  of  her  heart.  Its  silence  was  broken  by  a 
voice  whose  echoes  would  never  cease.  During  the  agony, 
the  fear,  the  awful  suspense,  of  that  eventful  day.  Vera  had 
ceased  to  be  a  child,  and  had  become  a  woman— strong  to 
act  and  to  suffer.     And  now  that  the  man,  on  whom  she 


THE    WOMAN-  W  VERA   A  WAKES.  183 

had  leaned  as  might  a  younger  sister,  and  whom  she  r^;arded 
as  a  superior  being,  far  beyond  and  above  her,  had  become 
utterly  helpless — dependent  on  her  for  existence — woman- 
like, she  began  to  love  him  as  only  a  woman  could  love; 
and  with  the  same  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  and  self -forgetful- 
ness  which  had  been  the  characteristic  of  her  mother. 

Innocent  love  is  happiness ;  it  brings  its  own  reward ; 
and  the  more  unselfish  it  is,  the  more  profoundly  it  satisfies* 

The  world  began  to  grow  more  beautiful  to  Vera,  even 
on  that  chill  autumn  night,  and  the  sounds  of  nature  to 
make  sweet  chords  with  the  new  and  rdysterious  impulses  ol 
her  heart.  The  brook  sang  to  her  as  of  old,  when  she  was 
a  child  ;  but  now  with  richer,  deeper  meanings ;  the  chirp 
of  the  crickets  seemed  cheery  and  companionable  ;  the  light 
of  the  stars  grew  kindly  and  sympathetia  A  stag,  attracted 
by  the  fire,  came  and  stood  in  the  outer  circle  of  light,  and 
gazed  at  her  a  :ioment  with  his  laige,  wistful,  questioning 
^es.  With  something  of  her  old  mirthfulness,  she  shoc^ 
her  finger  at  him,  as  if  he  were  an  unruly  child,  liiat  might 
disturb  the  sleeper  over  whom  she  was  watching,  and  the 
timid  creature  bounded  away. 

The  hours  passed  swiftly,  with  strange,  happy  thoughts 
and  fancies  flashing  up  in  her  mind,  as  little  understood  as 
the  mysterious  aurora  that  was  illuminating  the  northern 
sky. 

The  young  girl  was  consciously  puzzled  by  the  feet  that 
she  was  beginning  to  look  forward  to  Saville's  awakening 
with  something  like  shyness  and  embarrassment ;  her  heart 
fluttered  at  the  very  thought  Heretofore,  she  had  lifted 
her  eyes  and  face  to  his  with  no  more  self-consciousness 
than  that  of  a  flower  opening  to  the  morning  sun.  And 
yet,  that  which  she  half  dreaded  she  anticipated  with  a  new 
and  vague  delight. 

Her  finger  often  sought  his  pulse,  and  her  confidence  in- 


284  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

creased,  as  she  found  that  it  was  quiet  and  even,  though 
feeble. 

As  dawn  began  to  tinge  the  eastern  horizon,  he  seemed  to 
grow  uneasy.  His  brow  contracted  heavily,  and,  bending 
down,  she  heard  him  mutter, 

' '  Stand  aside  ;  your  power  to  curse  my  life  has  gone. ' ' 

Then,  after  a  little,  his  face  became  calm  and  quiet  for  a 
while.  But  soon  another  painful  dream  disturbed  him,  and 
from  broken  words  and  sentences  it  was  evident  that  he  was 
living  over  the  terrible  scenes  in  Fort  Clinton.  Suddenly  he 
said,  quite  plainly, 

"  Vera,  my  heart's  true  mate,  how  can  I  leave "  and 

he  started  up,  and  looked  wildly  around  for  a  moment. 

"Theron, "  said  Vera  gently,  "it's  only  a  dream  ;  and 
dreams,  you  told  me,  '  go  by  contraries.  *  ' ' 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly  a  moment,  and  then  asked, 
•'  What  has  happened  ?" 

"  I  dreamt  that  you  would  be  wounded,  and  alas  I  it 
came  true,  I  also  dreamt  that  I  could  not  find  you  ;  but, 
thank  God  I  the  contrary  was  true. ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  it  all  comes  back  to  me  now.  You  found 
me  dying  in  the  fort. ' ' 

' '  But  you  promised  to  live, ' '  said  Vera,  with  a  sudden 
chill  of  fear. 

•*  Did  I  ?  My  head  is  confused.  Will  you  please  give 
me  a  little  water?" 

Trembling  with  apprehension,  she  hastened  to  the  stream, 
and  returned  with  the  cool  and  refreshing  water.  This 
awakening  was  so  different  from  what  she  expected. 

After  taking  the  water  he  seemed  better,  and  his  eyes 
sought  hers  wistfully  and  questioningly. 

* '  I  am  very  weak, ' '  he  said  ;  ' '  you  must  be  patient  with 
me. 

••  O  Theron  1  live  !  live  !  that  is  all  I  ask  I" 


THE    WOMAN    IN   VERA   AWAKES.  285 

•*  I  feel  that  I  shall,  Vera  ;  but  it  may  be  long  before  I 
ftm  well.     You  were  holding  my  head  when  I  awoke. ' ' 

' '  Let  me  support  it  again, ' '  she  said  blushing,  and  she 
lifted  his  head  into  her  lap. 
"  I  want  to  see  your  face." 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered  hastily  ;  "  look  at  the  beautifrl 
dawn  yonder." 

"  Your  face  is  to  me  more  beautiful  and  more  full  of 
hope  than  the  morning.  Are  you  sure  that  you  are  well  ? 
I  have  had  such  painful  dreams.  Please  let  me  see  you  and 
reassure  myself. ' ' 

She  moved  so  as  to  comply  with  his  wish,  and  as  he  fixed 
his  eyes  eagerly  upon  her  face,  it  drooped,  and  a  warmer 
light  stole  into  it  than  glowed  in  the  eastern  sky, 

"  I  do  see  the  dawn  in  your  face, "  he  said,  "  and  it  grows 
more  lovely  every  moment.  Have  you  been  watching  over 
me  all  the  long  night  V ' 

"  It  has  not  seemed  long, "  she  faltered. 
"Vera!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  timidly  to  his,  but  they  soon  fell  again 
before  his  ardent  gaze. 

"  Vera,  your  face  contains  the  true  elixir  of  life,  I  shall 
get  well,  never  fear  !" 

* '  O  Theron  !  I  am  so  glad — so  very  happy.     But  if  you 
cannot  sleep  any  more,  had  we  not  better  try  to  get  home  ?" 
"  Yes,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  of  deep  content ;   "  tak» 
me  home." 

She  was  glad  to  escape.  Arousing  Tascar  and  Molly, 
they  were  soon  on  their  way  to  the  secluded  mountain  gorge, 
in  which  was  the  rude  cabin,  which,  to  Saville,  promised  to 
be  a  haven  of  rest  such  as  he  had  never  known  before. 


a86  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART, 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

vera's  only  crime. 

AFTER  a  toilsome,  difficult  journey,  during  which 
Saville's  wound  became  very  painful,  they  reached 
the  cabin.  Old  Gula  met  them  with  a  scared  expression 
on  her  wrinkled  face,  but  was  overjoyed  at  finding  Tascar 
and  Vera  safe. 

*' I'se  had  an  orful  time,"  she  said.  "Strange,  loud 
voices,  speakin'  among  de  hills,  an'  I  didn't  know  what 
A'sj  mean.  Den  Mas'r  Brown  come  home  wild  and  drefful, 
a-cryin'  dat  all  was  lost.  Den  he  sat  a  long  time  like  a 
stun.  All  on  a  sudden  he  ask,  '  Whare's  Vera  ? '  I  telled 
him  dat  you  took  Tascar,  and  went  away  yesterday  mornin*. 
And  he  began  to  go  on  orfuUy  agin,  and  took  de  big  gun 
and  went  arter  you. '  * 

"  Well,"  said  Vera,  with  a  sigh,  "if  he  does  not  come 
soon,  I  will  try  to  find  him.  Mr.  Saville  has  been  badly 
wounded,  and  we  must  all  do  our  best  for  him.  You  get  us 
some  breakfast.  Tascar,  make  a  fire  on  the  hearth  in  the 
cabin,  and  then  help  your  mother.  Molly,  will  you  help 
me  cany  Mr.  Saville  in  ?" 

They  laid  him  down  on  the  cabin  floor,  and  Vera  brought 
a  pillow,  saying,  as  she  placed  it  under  his  head,  "  You  are 
at  home^  Theron,"  and  was  well  rewarded  by  his  contented 
smile. 

One  end  of  the  cabin  had  been  partitioned  off  into  two 
apartments.     In  one  of  these  a  couch  was  pr^)ared  for 


VERA'S  ONLY  CRIME.  287 

Saville  ;  bat,  as  they  were  about  to  carry  him  thither,  Mr. 
Brown  entered  in  strong  excitement,  exclaiming, 

"  Great  God  !  Vera.     What  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  Hush,  father!" 

' '  Are  you  bent  on  my  destruction  ?  Why  have  you 
brought  this  strange  woman  here  ?" 

' '  I'm  not  so  moighty  strange,"  snapped  Mohy. 

' '  Mr.  Brown, ' '  said  Saville,  in  his  old,  significant  tone. 

The  exile  turned  tremblingly  to  him. 

"  You  are  safe,  as  I  told  you,  just  as  long  as  you  do  ex- 
actly as  I  direct.  Sit  down  there  and  rest,  and  all  will  be 
well." 

The  man  obeyed,  but  was  evidently  dissatisfied,  and 
under  great  perturbation. 

Before  the  day  was  over,  both  Vera  and  Saville  were  satis- 
fied that  the  services  of  a  surgeon  would  be  required.  Molly 
was  anxious  to  depart,  that  she  might  find  her  husband, 
Larry.  Vera  therefore  decided,  without  consulting  her 
father,  to  send  Tascar  with  her  across  the  mountains  to  New 
Windsor.  Molly  thought  that  all  who  had  escaped  from 
the  forts  would  probably  be  in  that  region,  and  said  that 
she  knew  the  way  well,  after  she  got  down  near  to  the  river  ; 
so  it  was  arranged  that  they  should  go  early  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

Saville  slept  a  great  deal  of  the  time,  and  seemed  strength- 
ened by  the  nourishing  broth  which  Gula  made  for  him. 
His  deep  content,  and  the  anticipation  of  Vera's  society  and 
care,  did  more  than  anything  else  to  forward  recovery. 

The  next  morning,  Molly  and  Tascar  departed.  Vera 
accompanied  them,  and  directed  the  boy  to  blaze  the  trees 
until  the  path  became  plain.  Molly  did  not  tell  Vera  that 
she  had  learned  from  her  husband  a  great  deal  about 
Saville's  previous  life,  nor  did  she  hint  that  he  had  a  wife 
living  in  New  York.     The  redoubtable  "captain's"  ideas 


288  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

concerning  morals  were  rather  confused,  at  best ;  but,  in 
this  case,  she  acted  in  accordance  with  such  light  as  she  had, 
and  her  reasoning  was  simple,  if  not  correct  Saville  had 
saved  her  life  ;  and,  whether  he  was  right  or  wrong,  she 
was  in  honor  bound  not  to  put  a  straw  in  his  way  ;  and, 
from  what  Larry  had  told  her  about  Saville's  wife,  she  fdt 
that  no  one  had  a  truer  right  than  he  to  find  a  better  one. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  following  day  Tascar  returned, 
and,  to  Vera's  great  joy,  was  accompanied  by  her  old 
acquaintance.  Surgeon  Jasper.  He  pronounced  Saville's 
wound  severe,  but  not  dangerous,  if  he  had  good  care  and 
nursing;  "and  that,  I  know,  he  will  get,"  he  added,  with 
a  glance  that  brought  the  rich  color  into  Vera's  face,  which, 
for  some  reason  that  she  could  not  understand,  was  now  so 
ready  to  come  and  go. 

"  I  am  here,  prepared  to  stay  a  few  days,"  said  the  kind 
surgeon  ;  "  and  when  I  leave,  good  living  and  sleep  will  be 
all  that  are  needed,  I  think. " 

"  How  can  I  repay  you?"  exclaimed  Vera,  taking  his 


'*  No  occasion  for  thanks,"  was  the  brusque  reply. 
"  This  is  my  business,  and  we  can't  afford  to  lose  such  good 
soldiers  as  Saville." 

Her  father  chafed  greatly,  at  first,  when  he  found  that  an- 
other stranger  had  learned  of  his  hiding-place,  but  the  man 
was  so  genial  and  frank,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  been  at  the 
bedside  of  Vera's  mother  partially  reconciled  the  exile  to  his 
presence.  The  surgeon,  also,  raised  his  hopes  that  the 
American  cause  was  not  hopelessly  lost,  as  he  had  believed 
on  the  capture  of  the  forts. 

Under  skilled  treatment,  Saville's  wound  healed  rapidly, 
and  he  was  soon  able  to  sit  up  before  the  fire  on  the  ample 
hearth  of  the  cabin.  The  genial  surgeon  was  the  life  of  the 
party  during  the  long  autumn  evenings,  and  to  Vera  these 


VESA'S  ONLY  CRIME.  289 

hours  were  ever  remembered  as  among  the  happiest  of  her 
life. 

Whenever  it  was  possible,  she  found  Saville's  eyes  follow- 
ing her  with  an  expression  that  warmed  her  very  soul ;  but 
she,  in  her  innocence,  imagined  that  his  rapid  recovery  was 
the  cause  of  the  springs  of  joy  welling  up  in  her  heart. 

But,  as  Saville  grew  stronger,  he  often  fell  into  gloomy 
fits  of  musing,  which  perplexed  and  distressed  her.  She 
also  noted  a  troubled  expression  on  the  surgeon's  face,  as 
some  little  act  on  the  part  of  Saville  suggested  that  his  feel- 
ings were  warmer  than  gratitude  or  friendship  inspired. 

Jasper  knew  that  Saville  had  a  wife,  and,  moreover,  that 
she  was  a  wife  only  in  name.  He  felt  that  Vera  was  too 
fine  a  girl  to  be  trifled  with  ;  but  as  she  was  situated,  the 
man  to  whom  she  had  unconsciously  given  her  heart  might 
do  more  to  make  than  mar  her  happiness.  At  any  rate,  the 
surgeon,  who  was  a  man  of  the  world,  concluded  that  it  was 
not  his  business  to  interfere,  and  so  at  last  took  his  departure 
in  his  wonted  jovial  manner. 

"  I  suppose  you  won't  thank  me,  Saville,"  he  said,  "  for 
taking  you  away  from  this  fairies'  bower  ;  but  I  shall  report 
to  the  governor  that  you  will  be  fit  for  duty  in  a  month." 

' '  I  shall  not  forget  that  I  am  a  soldier, ' '  said  the  young 
man,  flushing  ;   "  and  you  may  see  me  in  less  time." 

After  the  surgeon's  departure,  Saville's  moody  fits  did 
not  cease,  but  rather  increased.  While  he  was  exceedingly 
kind  and  gentle,  Vera  saw  that  he  was  passing  under  some 
kind  of  restraint ;  his  eyes  did  not  seek  hers  with  the  old, 
frank,  ardent  expression  ;  and,  at  times,  she  observed  him 
regarding  her  furtively,  and  with  such  a  sad,  wistful  look, 
that  she  began  to  shed  tears  in  secret,  though,  with  womanly 
instinct,  she  tried  to  appear  cheerful,  and  blind  to  all 
changes  in  him. 

But  when  his  growing  distress  of  mind  began  to  retard  his 


990  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

recovery,  she  felt  that  she  could  endure  it  no  longer.  One 
day,  when  he  scarcely  tasted  some  delicate  birds  which  she 
had  shot  for  him,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  said, 

'•  Theron,  what  is  the  matter?  I  can  shut  my  eyes  to 
the  truth  no  longer.  Something  is  preying  upon  your  mind. 
You  have  a  deeper  wound  than  that  which  Surgeon  Jasper 
healed.  For  the  last  few  days,  you  have  failed,  rather  than 
gained,  in  health." 

He  grew  very  pale,  and  did  not  immediately  answer. 

*'  I  do  not  ask  to  know  the  cause  of  your  trouble,"  she 
continued  ;  "for  you  would  tell  me  if  you  thought  best  ; 
but  I  cannot  endure  to  see  you  suffer.  If  there  is  anything 
that  a  poor,  friendless  young  girl  like  myself  can  do,  I  pray 
you,  speak  plainly.  Believe  me,  I  would  think  any  self- 
sacrifice  that  would  serve  you  a  privilege." 

"  Any  sacrifice.  Vera  ?" 

"  Any,  any  that  you  can  ask,"  she  replied  eagerly. 

But,  looking  into  her  pure,  innocent  face,  and  rem  m- 
bering  how  totally  ignorant  she  was  of  the  world's  harsh 
judgment,  his  own  manhood  rose  up  to  defend  her. 

He  took  both  of  her  hands  in  his,  and  said,  very  gently, 
"  I  believe  you,  my  dearest  sister ;  you  are  unselfishness 
itself.  But  no  cruel  self-sacrifice  on  your  part  would  help 
me.  Some  day  I  will  tell  you  what  is  troubling  me.  I  can- 
not now.  The  miserable  and  misgoverned  world,  of  which 
you  know  so  little,  often  brings  to  those  who  must  be  out 
in  it  many  hard  problems  to  solve.  Rest  assured,  if  I  need 
your  help,  I  will  ask  it,  and  would  rather  have  it  than  that 
of  any  other  living  being.  Now  take  your  gun,  and  get  me 
some  more  birds,  and  at  supper  I  will  try  to  do  better." 

She  saw  that  he  wished  to  be  alone,  and  so,  sorely  per- 
plexed and  heavy-hearted,  she  complied. 

After  she  was  gone,  Saville  grappled  with  the  strongest 
temptation  which  life  had  yet  brought  him.    In  the  eye  of 


VERA'S  ONLY  CRIME.  291 

the  law,  he  had  a  wife,  and  could  not  marry  Vera,  and  yet 
he  loved  her  with  the  whole  intensity  of  his  nature.  From 
the  hour,  also,  when  she  blushed  under  his  searching  glance 
in  the  early  dawn,  at  the  time  of  their  bivouac  in  the  moun- 
tains, he  had  thought  she  was  learning  to  give  him  a  warmer 
affection  than  that  of  a  sister.  In  his  weakness  and  inability 
to  think  connectedly,  this  hope  had  filled  him  with  a  sort  of 
delirium  of  happiness  ;  but  he  had  soon  commenced  asking 
himself  how  this  mutual  regard  must  end. 

With  his  French  education,  and  as  an  honest  adherent  to 
the  creed  that  the  impulses  of  nature  should  be  man's  only 
law,  he  required  no  priestly  sanction  to  his  love  ;  but  could 
have  said  to  Vera,  in  all  sincerity,  ' '  My  heart  claims  you  j 
my  reason  approves  the  choice.  I  cannot  help  my  p)ast  folly, 
but  know  that  I  am  acting  wisely  now.  I  will  ever  be  your 
true  lover.  I  will  be  such  a  husband  as  love  can  make  me, 
and  such  as  mere  form  and  law  cannot 

"While  all  this  was  true,  he  also  clearly  saw  that  Vera  in 
remembrance  of  her  mother's  teaching  and  example,  and 
with  her  faith  in  the  Bible,  and  in  the  Being  whose  will  she 
believed  that  book  revealed,  would  not  look  upon  any  such 
relation  in  the  light  in  which  it  appeared  to  him.  Although 
the  young  girl  had  proved  her  readiness  to  sacrifice  her  life 
for  him,  there  had  always  been  something  in  her  words  and 
manner  which  led  him  to  doubt  greatly  whether  he  could 
induce  her  to  violate  her  conscience,  even  though  that  which 
he  asked  seemed  perfectly  right  to  him. 

In  justice  to  Saville,  it  should  be  said,  that  though  he  re- 
garded her  faith  as  an  utter  delusion,  he  would  not  wish  her 
to  do  anything  which  she  thought  wrong  ;  and,  although 
he  could  honestly  declare  his  love,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  a 
base  thing  to  ask  her  to  reward  it,  since  she  could  not  do  so 
without  great  moral  wrong  to  herself. 

There  were,  besides,  other  very  important  considerations. 


992  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

He  had  always  promised  Vera,  and  had  sincerely  proposed 
to  secure  for  her,  a  recognized  and  respected  place  in  so- 
ciety.    If  she  listened  to  his  suit,  this  would  be  impossible. 

She  was  defenseless,  friendless,  more  than  orphaned.  She 
trusted  him  implicitly,  and,  as  a  man  of  honor,  he  found 
that  he  could  come  to  but  one  conclusion.  He  must  be 
true  to  her  interests,  at  any  and  every  cost  to  himself. 

"Am  I  equal  to  this.?"  he  groaned,  and  he  strode  up 
and  down  the  little  cabin  in  such  agony,  that  great  beaded 
drops  came  out  upon  his  forehead. 

At  last  he  sat  down,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
while  his  mind  went  rapidly  over  the  past.  In  imagination, 
he  saw  the  timid  maiden  venturing  down  into  the  dark  fort, 
where  on  every  side  a  late  worse  than  death  threatened,  that 
she  might  rescue  him. 

• '  I  am  a  base  wretch  to  hesitate, ' '  he  cried  ;  ' '  but  would 
that  I  had  died  there,  rather  than  have  lived  to  suffer  this  ! 
She  shall  not  surpass  me  in  self-sacrifice,  however.  I  will 
place  her  as  high  in  society  as  a  brother's  love  can  raise  her, 
and  then,  if  the  burden  grows  too  heavy,  I  can  soon  enter 
on  the  dreamless  sleep  from  which  she  recalled  me.  O  hating 
and  hateful  wife  !  even  your  malignity  would  be  satisfied  if 
you  could  see  me  now." 

Vera  returned  empty-handed.  "  My  hand  trembled  so 
that  I  could  not  shoot,"  she  said.     "  I  am  very  sorry." 

'  •  Never  mind,  little  sister  ;  I  am  better  now,  and  do  not 
need  anything,"  he  said  soothingly,  for  he  saw  that  her 
heart  was  full. 

"Better!"  she  cried,  with  tears  starting  to  her  eyes. 
*■•  You  are  but  the  ghost  of  your  old  self.  I  never  saw  you 
so  pale,  and  you  look  years  older  than  when  I  left  you  an 
hour  ago." 

"  You  are  tired  and  depressed,  Vera.  Come  and  sit  down 
by  me  on  your  low  bench,  and  see  if  I  cannot  cheer  you." 


VERA'S  ONLY  CRIME.  293 

She  gave  him  a  wistful,  questioning  look,  which  he  loand 
!t  hard  to  meet. 

Making  a  strong  effort  at  self-control,  she  complied  witii 
his  wish,  and  for  a  few  moments  neither  spoke.  Again  and 
again  she  would  look  at  him,  with  the  same  childlike,  ques- 
tioning manner.  ' 

"  What  is  it,  little  sister  ?"  he  at  last  asked. 

For  some  reason,  this  term,  which  had  once  seemed  s© 
sweet  and  endearing,  but  which  of  late  he  had  seldom  em- 
ployed, now  chilled  her  heart  with  fear.  His  face,  though 
very  kind,  had  a  strong,  resolved  expression.  She  felt  as  if 
a  viewless  but  impassable  barrier  were  growing  up  between 
them.  While  at  her  side,  and  holding  her  hand,  he  still 
seemed  far  oft  and  receding.  He  called  her  his  "  dear  littl? 
sister,"  and  yet  she  would  rather  that  he  should  say  simply. 
Vera,  in  the  tone  in  which  he  had  spoken  her  name,  wheji^ 
after  her  night's  watch,  she  had  raised  her  downcast  eyes  to 
his.  She  neither  understood  herself  nor  him,  but  her  heart 
craved  for  more  than  mere  brotherly  affection  ;  and  now  tha* 
he  sought  to  manifest  only  this,  he  rudely  jarred  the  deep«S 
and  most  sensitive  chord  of  her  being.  When  he  again 
asked,  in  a  gentle,  soothing  tone,  as  he  might  speak  to  a 
child,  ' '  Tell  me  what  troubles  you,  sister  Vera.  Speak  as 
frankly  as  if  I  were  indeed  your  brother,"  she  bowed  her 
head  upon  his  knee,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter,"  she  faltered.  "  It 
seems  as  if  you  were  miles  away  from  me,  and  that  some- 
thing dreadful  is  going  to  happen. 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his  face,  for  he  interpreted  her 
feelings  far  better  than  she  could  herself ;  and  he  learned, 
as  never  before,  how  penetrating  a  loving  woman's  intui* 
tions  often  are. 

Suddenly  she  asked,  "Are  you  going  to  leave  w.% 
Theron?" 


294  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

He  had  about  decided  to  tell  her  the  whole  truth,  and 
show  the  necessity  of  his  course,  when  her  father  entered  the 
cabin.  Before  doing  so,  he  had  marked  his  daughter's  atti- 
tude and  distress,  also  Saville's  caresses  as  he  stroked  her 
bowed  head.  He  said  nothing,  however,  but  sat  down  in 
his  accustomed  place,  with  the  deepest  gloom  lowering  upon 
his  haggard  face. 

Vera  was  about  to  move  hastily  away,  but  Saville  retained 
her  at  his  side,  saying, 

"  No,  Vera  ;  no  one  has  a  better  right  here  than  you." 

For  a  little  time  they  all  remained  silent.  Vera  made 
desperate  efforts  to  gain  the  mastery  of  her  feelings,  though 
with  but  partial  success  ;  for  she  felt  that  some  blow  was 
impending,  which  she  could  not  avoid,  and  yet  from  which 
she  shrank  in  sickening  dread. 

At  last  Saville  began,  in  a  quiet,  steady  voice, 

**  Mr.  Brown,  I  have  so  far  recovered  from  my  wound 
that  I  ought  soon  to  report  for  duty  again.  I  feel  that  it 
would  be  very  wrong  to  leave  you  here  in  this  remote  and 
lonely  place.  I  tremble  as  I  think  of  what  might  happen 
in  case  of  sickness  or  accident.  Moreover,  the  country  is 
filled  with  lawless,  reckless  men,  as  you  have  learned,  to 
your  sorrow." 

The  exile  sprang  up,  and  commenced  pacing  the  room  in 
great  excitement,  but  Saville  continued  firmly, 

' '  You  owe  it  to  Vera  to  place  her  in  a  more  secure  po- 
sition. This  wild  mountain  gorge  is  no  place  for  her.  She 
is  fitted  to  shine  among  the  highest  and  best,  and  I  think 
I  can  say,  without  boasting,  that  I  have  the  influence  to 
place  her  there.     All  that " 

A  harsh,  bitter  laugh  interrupted  him,  and  her  fathe? 
said, 

"  Mr.  Saville,  you  are  unequaled  at  sarcasm." 

The  young  man  rose  and  faced  the  speaker,  and  Vera, 


rERA'S  ONLY  CRIME.  295 

also,  stood  tremblingly  at  his  side.  "  I  mean  every  word 
I  say.      I  can "  he  began  earnestly. 

"  Mr.  Saville,"  again  interrupted  the  exile,  **  yonr  words 
are  worse  than  useless.  It  is  time  you  learned  the  truth. 
For  the  sake  of  the  past,  in  memory  of  what  my  daughto- 
braved  in  your  behalf,  you  will  at  least  leave  us  unmolested, 
after  you  learn  who  and  what  we  are.  Blinded  as  I  am  by 
remorse  and  fear,  I  have  still  marked  your  growing  affection 
for  Vera  ;  and  though  I  am  but  a  wreck — a  miserable  frag- 
ment of  a  man — I  have  still  some  sense  of  honor  and  justica 
left.  You  are  a  gentleman,  sir.  I  knew  that  from  the 
first ;  and  it  is  not  right  that  you  should  associate  with 
such  as  we  are  any  longer." 

*'  You  are  talking  wildly,  sir.  You  are  not  youreelf," 
Saville  answered  soothingly. 

*'  I  am  speaking  terrible  truth,"  continued  the  unhappy 
man.  "  Whatever  else  has  failed  in  me,  memory  has  not, 
and  it  is  my  hourly  and  relentless  scourge.  But  enough  of 
this.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  we  are  outcasts.  A  curse  is 
resting  on  us,  which  must  die  with  us.  This  is  no  place  for 
you,  and  you  will  bear  me  witness,  that  I  never  sought  to 
draw  you  within  the  deadly  shade  of  my  destiny.  I  have 
but  one  favor  to  ask — that  you  leave  us  to  perish  as  remote 
from  human  knowledge  as  possible." 

"  I  cannot  do  this,"  cried  Saville,  quite  off  his  guard. 
' '  Why  are  you  outcasts  ?  What  crime  has  this  innocent 
maiden  committed,  that  I  should  heartlessly  leave  her  to  so 
horrible  a  fate  ?' ' 

"  What  crime  has  she  committed  ?  The  same  as  that  of 
her  poor,  fond  mother,  the  crime  of  belonging  to  me,  and 
of  being  a  part  of  me.  Would  you  ally  yourself — would 
you  even  associate— with  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  worst 
criminals  on  the  face  of  the  earth  ?" 

With  a  faint  cry,  Vera  fell  to  the  floor,  as  if  struck  down 


296  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

by  a  resistless  blow.      Saville  instantly  lifted  her  up,  say^ 

ing, 

*•  Don't  grieve  so,  darling.  He  charges  you  with  ne 
feult,  only  misfortune. 

Her  father  looked  at  him  in  great  surprise  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said, 

"  Well,  since  you  differ  so  greatly  from  the  rest  of  tho 
world,  you  may  take  her  away,  where  her  relation  to  ma 
may  never  be  known.  If  she  could  escape  from  under  the 
curse  which  crushed  her  mother,  I  would  esteem  it  a  bound- 
less favor.     For  me  there  is  no  hope. 

"Will  you  go  with  me.  Vera?"  asked  Saville  gently, 
pressing  her  closer  to  his  heart. 

"  Go,  Vera,  go,  since  he  is  willing  to  take  you,"  said  her 
fether  earnestly.  "  The  thought  that  you  were  safe  and 
happy  would  render  the  miserable  remnant  of  my  life  more 
endurable. 

Vera's  sobs  ceased  speedily,  and  she  became  very  quiet. 
After  a  moment  or  two,  she  raised  her  head  from  Saville' s 
shoulder,  and  said  distinctly, 

"  No,  I  will  not  leave  you.  You  are  my  father,  and  my 
dying  mother  commended  you  to  my  care." 

"  O  God  !"  exclaimed  her  father,  "  that  I  should  have 
brought  down  the  curse  on  two  such  hearts  !  My  punish- 
ment is  greater  than  I  can  bear. 

"Theron,"  continued  Vera,  drawing  away  from  him, 
and  trying  to  steady  herself  in  her  weakness  and  strong  emo- 
tion, "  the  blow  has  fallen  ;  I  have  felt  it  coming  all  day. 
We  must  indeed  part ;  there  is  no  help  for  it,  for  my  duty 
is  here.  You  must  leave  us  to  our  fate  ;  for,  as  father  says, 
you  cannot  continue  to  associate  with  such  as  we  are. 

"  Leave  you  1"  he  cried,  drawing  her  closely  to  his  side, 
and  looking  down  into  her  pale  face  with  an  honest,  manly 
flush  of  indignation  on  his.     ' '  May  every  plague  in  nature 


VERA'S  ONLY   CRIME.  297 

fall  on  ray  dishonored  head  if  1  do  !  You  are  rightly  called 
'  Vera,'  for  a  truer  heart  than  yours  never  beat ;  and  I  am 
not  such  a  fool  as  to  lose  it.  I  shall  not  ask  her  to  leave 
you,  sir,"  he  said,  addressing  her  father.  "  But  I  charge 
you,  by  the  memory  of  your  dead  wife,  and  as  you  value 
your  safety,  to  place  no  obstacle  in  my  way,  as  I  seek  to 
make  her  happy  in  this,  her  mountain  home." 

"Theron,"  said  Vera,  in  a  low,  thrilling  tone,  that  he 
never  forgot,  "  I  did  not  know  that  there  was  so  noble  a 
man  in  all  the  world." 

"  Give  me  no  credit,"  he  replied.  "  To  very  few  does 
there  come  such  a  chance  for  happiness  as  I  have  found  in 
you.  Come  with  me  out  under  the  starlight,  for  I  have 
much  to  say  to  you." 

Before  leaving  the  cabin,  however,  he  turned  to  her  father, 
who  sat  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  and  said, 

**  I  know  not,  and  will  never  seek  to  know,  what  you 
have  done,  and  I  believe  that  your  remorse  is  greater  than 
your  crime  ;  but,  as  the  father  of  this  dear  and  innocent 
maiden,  I  shall  always  treat  you  with  respect.  You  have 
acted  honorably  to-night,  and  I  honor  you  for  it.  I  take 
my  present  course  deliberately,  and  with  my  eyes  fully  open." 

'  *  I  fear  that  you  will  have  cause  for  regret ;  and  yet,  for 
Vera's  sake,  I  hope  it  may  be  for  the  best." 

"  I  will  never  leave  you,  father,"  said  his  daughter,  ten- 
derly putting  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  kissing  him. 

Tears  came  into  the  poor  man's  eyes,  and  he  said  huskily, 

"  I  am  not  worthy  of  this.     Go,  go  ;  it  pains  me  !" 

Saville,  in  the  impulse  of  his  strong  love  and  excitement, 
had  decided  to  tell  Vera  just  how  he  was  situated,  believing 
that,  in  view  of  the  circumstances,  she  would  accept  of  his 
life-long  devotion,  though  unsanctioned  by  any  formal  rites  ; 
but  her  first  glad  and  natural  utterance,  as  they  stepped  out 
into  the  quiet  night,  checked  the  words  upon  his  lips. 


298  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART, 

**  Thank  God  !"  she  cried  ;  "  thank  God  !  How  good 
my  Heavenly  Father  has  been  to  me  !  Oh  !  that  I  could 
tell  mother  how  happy  I  am  !" 

Saville  was  silent.  It  was  his  turn  to  experience  a  pro- 
phetic chill  of  dread.  What  had  that  old  Hebrew  divinity, 
at  whom  he  had  scoffed  so  many  years,  to  do  with  his  hap- 
piness or  hers  ?  But  now  He  rose  up  before  him  like  a 
grim,  remorseless  idol,  to  which  the  maiden  at  his  side,  so 
gentle  and  loving,  and  yet  so  strong,  might  sacrifice  both 
herself  and  him. 

Prudence  whispered,  "  You  had  better  not  tell  her  to- 
night, you  have  too  much  at  stake  ;  wait."  And  so,  in- 
stead of  telling  her  the  sad  story  of  his  past  blindness  and 
folly,  with  their  consequences,  he  led  her  thoughts  away 
from  every  painful  theme,  resolving  that  they  both  should 
have  one  happy  hour,  whatever  might  be  on  the  morrow. 
And  yet,  remembering  the  only  relation  he  could  offer,  he 
did  not  dare  speak  frankly  of  his  love,  and  could  only  com- 
fort her  with  the  general  assurance  that  he  would  never  leave 
her  to  the  desolation  which  her  father's  language,  had  so 
awfully  described.  He  spoke  of  their  old,  happy  trysts,  and 
promised  that  they  should  be  continued  as  often  as  his 
duties  permitted.  Thus,  while  he  did  iioti  openly  and 
formally  decfare  his  love,  it  so  pervaded  his  tone  and  manner 
as  to  abundantly  satisfy  Vera,  whose  quick  intuitions  scarcely 
needed  words. 


VERA   MUST  BECOME  AN  A  THEIST.  299 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

VERA  MUST    BECOME  AN   ATHEIST. 

THAT  night  Saville  slept  but  little.  He  had  thought 
that  he  had  settled,  in  the  afternoon,  the  question  of 
his  future  relation  to  Vera  ;  but  the  strange,  unexpected 
events  of  the  evening,  after  her  father's  return,  had  given  the 
problem,  in  his  view,  an  entirely  nev/  aspect.  The  future 
he  had  proposed  for  the  maiden — the  chance  for  a  happy 
life  under  its  ordinary  and  normal  conditions  in  society — 
seemed  utterly  blotted  out  and  rendered  impossible,  and 
through  no  fault  or  weakness  of  his. 

Saville  was  full  of  generous  and  noble  impulses,  and  Vera's 
fidelity  to  her  father  excited  his  boundless  admiration  and 
respect,  and  greatly  increased  his  affection  for  her.  In  con- 
trasting the  faithful  girl  with  his  selfish  and  malicious  wife, 
he  could  scarcely  believe  that  they  both  belonged  to  the 
same  race. 

But,  as  he  saw  that  Vera's  beauty  of  character  equaled  that 
of  her  form  and  features,  the  more  unspeakable  became  his 
reluctance  to  attempt  any  such  self-sacrifice  as  he  had  re* 
solved  upon  in  the  afternoon.  Nor  did  it  now  seem  neces* 
sary,  or  even  right,  that  he  should.  Every  avenue  into  the 
world  was  closed  against  her,  and  she  looked  to  him  alona 
for  happiness. 

The  fact  of  her  love  was  most  apparent  ;  and  she,  no  mora 
than  himself,  could  be  satisfied  with  the  fiction  of  fraternal 
afection. 


300  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

But  one  thing  now  stood  in  the  way  of  their  happine^ 
and  that  was  what  he  regarded  as  her  superstitious  faith. 
Holding  her  present  belief,  what  he  must  propose  would 
seem  wrong,  and  only  by  teaching  her  his  own  philosophy 
could  he  make  it  appear  otherwise.  But  even  if  this  were 
possible,  he  had  promised,  at  her  mother' s  grave,  on  the  day 
of  burial,  that  he  would  never  do  aught  to  shake  the  child's 
confidence  in  that  mother's  teachings,  or  lead  from  the 
course  which  the  parent  would  approve.  Did  not  that 
pledge  prove  as  insuperable  a  bar  as  his  wretched  marriage  ? 
And  he  cursed  his  destiny  as  the  most  cruel  that  had  ever 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  man. 

But  as,  in  the  long,  wakeful  hours,  he  sought  some  solu- 
tion of  the  problem,  this  thought  occurred  :  When  he  made 
that  promise,  he  had  foreseen  no  such  emergency  as  this. 
Should  he  be  more  loyal  to  his  own  hasty  pledge  than  to 
her  whose  welfare  now  wholly  depended  upon  him  ?  In 
breaking  the  promise,  he  would  only  be  more  true  to  her. 
He  believed  that  her  mother  was  only  a  memory.  She  was 
dead  ;  she  had  ceased  to  exist  He  was  a  strong,  living 
friend. 

As  long  as  the  religious  delusion  which  the  mother  had 
taught  her  child  had  been  a  comfort  and  a  support,  it  was 
right  and  kind  not  to  disturb  it.  But  should  he  permit  this 
delusion — this  old,  antiquated  superstition,  from  which  the 
advanced  thinkers  of  the  world  were  fast  freeing  themselves 
—to  stand  in  the  way  of  actual  and  priceless  advantages  ? 
Both  Vera  and  himself  would  soon  cease  to  exist,  and  the 
opportunity  for  enjoyment  would  pass  away  forever.  Why, 
then,  let  an  imaginary  spectre  in  the  path,  that  a  bold  ap- 
proach and  scrutiny  would  dissipate,  prevent  a  lifetime  (A 
happiness  ?  Was  he  not  even  under  sacred  obligations  to 
take  the  trammels  from  her  mind,  when  they  would  cause 
such  remediless  loss  ? 


VERA    MUST  BECOME  AN  ATHEIST.  30 1 

The  honest  theorist  believed  that  duty  coincided  with  in- 
clination, and  starting  with  this  premise,  there  was  no  other 
conclusion  possible. 

But  the  question  which  troubled  him  most  was,  Could  he 
do  this  ?  He  had  been  shown  how  much  the  word  duty 
meant  to  Vera.  Her  faith  was  simple  and  absolute,  and 
having  been  taught  by  her  mother,  was  most  dear  and  sacred. 
He  foresaw  that  the  task  would  be  exceedingly  difficult,  and 
yet  there  seemed  no  other  course. 

He  resolved  to  attempt  it  as  the  only  way  out  of  his  cruel 
dilemma  ;  and  it  was  a  habit  of  his  mind,  when  he  had 
reasoned  a  thing  out  to  his  satisfaction,  to  rest  firmly  in  the 
conclusion.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  ever  looking 
back  with  doubts  and  misgivings.  He  had  no  fears  but  that 
he  could  make  a  home  in  that  secluded  mountain  region, 
after  the  war  was  over,  which  would  contain  more  of  the 
elements  of  happiness  than  he  could  find  elsewhere.  And 
if  she  were  willing,  he  was  perfectly  ready  to  proclaim,  to  the 
world  that  the  impulses  of  nature  are  the  only  true  and  bind- 
ing laws,  and  to  support  his  creed  by  his  open  example.  He 
knew  that  his  proud,  conservative  mother  would  never  approve 
of  his  course,  but  this  was  too  near  and  personal  a  question 
to  be  decided  by  her  prejudices.  He  therefore  decided  to 
conceal  the  feet  of  his  marriage  from  the  maiden,  as  much 
for  her  sake  as  his  own.  For,  if  she  learned  of  it  prema- 
turely, before  receiving  the  enlightenment  of  mind  which  he 
hoped  to  bring  by  his  teaching,  she,  in  her  strong  supersti- 
tion, might  destroy,  not  only  his  happiness,  but  her  own. 

Having  settled  upon  his  course,  he  fell  into  a  refreshing 
slumber,  which  lasted  till  late  in  the  following  morning, 
when  he  was  awakened  by  the  report  of  Vera's  gun.  On 
going  out,  she  met  him  joyously,  exclaiming, 

"  My  aim  is  truer  to-day.  See  what  a  royal  dinner  you 
are  to  have  I" 


502  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEARTi 

"  I  will  come  to  your  banquet,  Queen  Esther." 

"  You  might  do  worse.  And  I'm  glad  you  have  no 
hateful  Haman  to  bring  with  you."  Then  she  added  mus- 
ingly, "How  often  I  have  read  that  story.  Do  you  know 
that  I  think  some  of  those  old  Bible  tales  are  ver}' strange  ?" 

"  Little  wonder,"   he  replied,  with  an  expressive  shrug. 

*■  But  I  believe  them,"   she  said  stoutly. 

*  I  do  not  doubt  it, ' '  he  replied  laughing  ;  ' '  even  to  the 
acceptance  of  that  marvelous,  long-eared  beast  which  was 
wiser  than  the  prophet,  and  spoke  his  master's  vernacular. 
There,  forgive  me  !  I  did  not  mean  to  pain  your  dear, 
credulous  heart.  You  must  remember,  in  charity  to  me, 
how  these  stories  sound  to  a  man.  I  hope  you  feel  as  well 
and  happy  as  I  do  this  morning.  But  I  need  not  ask, 
when  I  see  the  tints  of  these  October  leaves  in  your 
cheeks." 

"  Here  is  one  that  is  brown,  and  here  another,  yellow  and 
green,"  replied  Vera,  in  like  playful  spirit,  permitting  the 
cloud  to  pass  from  her  brow. 

*'  And  here  is  one  as  beautiful  as  that  dawn  which  I  saw 
reflected  in  your  face  after  the  night  you  so  patiently  watched 
over  me.  Was  that  rich  color  only  the  reflection  of  the  sky. 
Vera?" 

"  You  had  just  waked  up,  and  could  not  see  anything 
plainly.  But  a  busy  housekeeper  must  not  stand  idling 
here.     Come  and  see  what  Gula  has  for  breakfast." 

The  day  passed  like  a  happy  dream  to  them  both.  With 
A  shy,  maidenly  reserve.  Vera  checked  any  open  expression 
or  manifestation  of  the  love  she  was  content  to  see  in  his 
face  and  catch  in  his  tones,  while  the  garish  light  of  day 
lasted.  But  when  they  again  walked  out  in  the  starlight, 
Saville  would  be  put  off  no  longer,  and  he  asked, 

"  Vera,  do  you  know  why  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
leave  you?" 


VERA    MUST  BECOME  AN  ATHEIST.  303 

'*  You  said,  yesterday  afternoon,  that  I  was  your  dear  sis- 
er,"  she  faltered. 

"  That  is  an  endearing  term  ;  but  did  it  satisfy  you  ?'* 

She  \vSs  silent,  and  he  felt  her  hand  tremble  on  his  arm. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  did.  Your  wistful  eyes,  unconsciouslj 
to  yourself,  pleaded  for  something  more — some  dearer  term. 
Am  I  not  right?" 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  were  saying  when  I  found 
you  in  Fort  Clinton  ?"  she  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Tell  me  what  I  said." 

"  I  would  rather  that  you  remembered." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,  Vera.  I  supposed  they  would 
be  my  last  waking  thoughts,  and  I  said,  '  My  more  than 
sister,  my  heart's  true  mate.'     Were  not  those  my  words.?" 

*'  Yes  ;  and  they  have  made  sweet  echoes  in  my  ears  ever 
since,  though  I  did  not  till  last  night  understand  all  they 
meant. ' ' 

"  Have  they  not  made  echoes  in  your  heart  also  ?  Have 
you  not  found  your  own  true  mate  ?" 

"  *  Thou  knowest, '  Theron,  '  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my 
face  ;  else  would  a  maiden  blush '  tell  you  all.  I  cannot 
add,  with  Juliet, 

If  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 

I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay  ; 

for  you  know  well,  already,  that  I  am  wholly  yours.  In» 
deed,  if  my  heart  had  been  as  cold  toward  you  yesterday  as 
it  was  tender,  1  could  not  fail  of  being  won  by  your  gener- 
ous— O  Theron  !  your  course  toward  me,  who  am  so 
poor,  friendless,  and  shadowed  with  evil  and  shame,  over- 
whelms me  with  gratitude." 

"  Any  other  course  would  bring  me  life-long  wretched- 
ness.    Now  what  cause  have  you  for  gratitude  ?' ' 

' '  More  cause,  since  what  you  give  is  not  an  alms  ;  for 
though  I  should  perish  without  your  love,  I  could  not  take 
Roe— VIII -N 


304  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

it  as  a  charity.  But  are  you  sure  you  will  never  regret  your 
action  ?  My  heart  misgives  me  when  I  think  of  it ;  the  world 
can  offer  you  so  much  !  You  might  easily  win  one  who  is 
dowered  with  wealth,  rank,  and  beauty,  instead  of  poor  me, 
who  am  heiress  only  of  a  curse." 

Saville  thought,  with  a  mental  oath  of  execration,  how  he 
had  won  such  a  one  as  she  described  ;  but,  with  the  pur- 
pose of  banishing  all  such  misgivings  on  her  part,  he 
said, 

"  If  I  were  an  ambitious  boy  who  had  never  seen  the 
world,  there  might,  possibly,  be  some  ground  for  your  fears  ; 
but  from  my  youth  I  have  been  out  in  the  world,  and  know 
much  about  it ;  and  never,  in  my  happiest  moments  there, 
did  I  experience  half  the  content  I  found  in  your  compan- 
ionship, even  when  I  was  first  learning  to  know  your  worth, 
as  we  talked  together  on  the  height  back  of  your  old  home, 
near  West  Point.  Now  that  I  have  come  to  love  you,  now 
that  I  justly  honor  you  above  all  other  women,  can  you 
imagine  I  could  ever  think  of  another  ?  It  is  because  I 
have  seen  the  world,  and  know  what  it  contains,  and  how 
little  it  can  do  for  me,  that  I  prize  you  far  beyond  it  all  ; 
and  it  is  because  you  are  so  innocent  and  unworldly  that 
you  do  not  know  your  own  value.  If  I  had  met  you  in 
society,  I  should  have  had  scores  of  rivals. 

' '  Now  I  fear  you  are  flattering  me, ' '  she  said  laughing  ; 
"  but  you  would  have  had  no  cause  for  fear.  I  shall  come 
to  believe  in  my  value  only  as  I  can  make  you  happy." 

*'  Then  I  fear  you  will  grow  vain,  indeed,  for  you  will  find 
that  your  power  is  unbounded  in  this  respect." 

''  O  Theron  !  if  I  could  induce  you  to  accept  of  my 
faith,  what  you  say  would  eventually  be  true.  I  cannot  help 
telling  you  now,  at  the  commencement  of  our  new  and  happy 
life,  that  I  can  never  rest — never  be  satisfied — till  mother's 
favorite   words   from   the   Bible,  *  Let   not  your   heart  be 


VERA    MUST  BECOME  AN  ATHEIST.  303 

troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid,'  mean  to  you  what  they 
did  to  her  and  do  to  me.  For  some  reason,  God  had 
seemed  afar  off,  and  I  was  losing  my  faith  in  His  goodness 
and  mercy  ;  but,  from  the  time  He  enabled  me  to  find  yon 
in  the  fort,  I  have  felt  differently,  and  now  I  cannot  thank 
and  love  Him  enough." 

Saville  was  dismayed.  This  was  reversing  matters,  and 
the  one  he  proposed  to  win  over  to  atheism  was  fully  bent 
on  leading  him  to  become  a  Christian. 

After  a  moment  she  added,  "  I  miss  my  Bible  so  much. 
Won't  you  get  me  another,  Theron  ?" 

*'  I  cannot,"  he  said,  a  little  abruptly  ;  and  then  con- 
tinued, very  gently,  "  We  must  agree  to  dismiss  this  subject. 
Vera,  darling.  The  Bible  is  not  to  me  what  it  is  to  you, 
and  it  never  can  be.  Great  as  my  faults  are,  I  try  to  be 
honest ;  and  with  you  I  cannot  help  being  sincere.  If  you 
regarded  the  Bible  as  a  result  of  human  genius,  like  the 
plays  of  Shakespeare,  I  would  get  you  one.  But  I  cannot 
aid  you  in  making  its  unnatural  teaching  and  stories  the  law 
of  your  conscience. ' ' 

*•  O  Theron  i"  exclaimed  Vera,  bursting  into  tears,  and 
hiding  her  face  upon  his  shoulder. 

•'  I  knew  what  I  said  would  pain  you,  darling,  but  I  could 
not  help  it.  Would  you  have  me  act  the  part  of  a  hypo- 
crite ?  I  am  just  as  sincere  as  you  are.  You  have  told  me 
your  views  and  faith,  and  I  tell  you  mine.  As  you  believe 
in  the  Bible,  I  believe  in  man  and  nature  ;  and  I  see  in 
you  her  most  perfect  work." 

"  But  God  is  the  author  of  both  man  and  nature,"  said 
Vera  eagerly. 

"I  see  no  proof  of  it,  and  much  to  the  contrary,"  an- 
swered Saville  decidedly.  "  Moreover,  the  great  and  wise 
of  the  world,  who  do  their  own  thinking,  hold  the  same 
views  that  I  da     As  the  subject  has  come  up  between  us,  I 


3o6  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

could  not  help  being  honest  with  you,  as  I  ever  shall  be ; 
but  do  not  let  us  dwell  on  it  any  longer  now." 

Vera  sighed  deeply,  but  said  only,  ' '  I  cannot  understand 
how  any  one  can  be  so  good  and  noble  as  you  are  and  not 
believe  in  the  Bible.  I  never  even  dreamed  that  it  could  be 
otherwise  than  true,  and  to  doubt  it  seems  impossible.  And 
yet  I  know  you  are  as  sincere  as  I  am." 

"And  thus  you  prove  that  you  are  no  bigot,  darling; 
for,  as  a  general  thing,  the  devotees  of  all  the  various  relig- 
ions of  the  world  are  prone  to  regard  those  who  cannot  think 
just  as  they  do  as  willful,  wicked  wretches,  who  ought  to  be 
knocked  promptly  on  the  head.  If  you  can't  convert  me,  I 
am  sure  you  will  not  put  me  to  torture,  will  you,  dear  ?" 

"  If  I  did,  L»should  torture  myself  most.  But,  Theron, 
this  is  too  sad  a  subject  for  me  to  jest  about.  I  shall  never 
cease  to  hope  that  you  will  some  day  think  as  I  do.  God 
can  incline  your  heart  toward  Him  as  easily  as  He  bends  the 
tops  of  yonder  trees." 

"  Now,  Vera,  darling,  that  is  the  wind  which  is  bending 
the  treetops.  Let  us  drop  this  subject  for  the  present.  We 
have  both  been  honest  with  each  other,  and  we  could  not  be 
otherwise.  There  is  so  much  on  which  we  lovingly  and 
heartily  agree,  why  dwell  on  the  one  thing  wherein  we 
differ?"  And  he  strove,  with  alia  lover's  zeal,  to  banish 
her  sad  thoughts.  She  loved  him  too  well  to  permit  him 
to  see  that  he  failed.  Indeed  he  did  not  fail.  The  cup  of 
happiness  which  he  placed  to  her  lips  filled  her  with  a 
strange  delight,  even  v/hile  she  remained  conscious  that  it 
contained  one  bitter  dreg. 

The  following  days  passed  all  too  quickly  for  them  both. 
It  was  part  of  Saville's  scheme  to  enchain  her  affections,  so 
that  she  could  not  take  any  other  course,  when  the  test 
came,  than  that  which  he  proposed  ;  and  it  would  seem  that 
he  was  succeeding  beyond  his  hopes.     Her  capability  of 


VERA    MUST  BECOME  AN   ATHEIST.         307 

loving  was  large,  and  she  had  but  few  other  ties  and  inter- 
ests to  draw  her  thoughts  from  him.  His  mind  was  culti- 
vated, versatile,  ever  full  of  bright,  fresh  thoughts  ;  and  thus 
his  society  was  to  her  like  a  sweet,  exhilarating  wine.  But 
that  which  weighed  more  with  her  than  all  else  was  the  ever- 
present  memory  of  his  devoted  loyalty  to  her,  when  she 
knew  that  the  great  majority  of  the  world  would  have  shrunk 
away.  She  looked  forward  to  their  parting  with  inexpres- 
sible dread,  and  the  remembrance  of  the  constant  dangers 
to  which  as  a  soldier  he  must  be  exposed,  gave  to  her  affec- 
tion a  tenderness,  which  only  those  who  hold  their  heart- 
idols  in  uncertain  tenure  can  understand. 

During  the  latter  part  of  his  stay,  Saviile  wasted  no  hours 
in  love-idyls  ;  but  was  busy,  in  every  possible  way,  in  pro- 
viding for  her  security  and  comfort  during  the  coming  win- 
ter. He  sent  Tascar  repeatedly  across  the  mountains  for 
such  things  as  were  needed,  and  also  employed  him  in  con- 
structing a  secure  though  hidden  bridle-path  down  into  the 
glen.  He  induced  Mr.  Brown  to  aid  him  in  building  sub- 
stantial shelter  for  a  horse,  two  or  three  cows,  and  some 
poultry.  On  the  margin  of  a  neighboring  pond  there  was 
still  forage  which  might  be  cut,  which,  with  the  grain  that 
he  intended  to  send,  would  be  sufficient  provision  until 
spring  again  brought  its  abundant  supply. 

Vera  amused  Saviile  one  day  by  her  spirit  of  indepen- 
dence. 

*'  We  cannot  receive  all  this,"  she  said,  "  without  mak- 
ing some  return." 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  and  I  am  amply  repaid,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  I  am  in  earnest,"  she  continued.  '*  Is  there  not  some 
way  in  which  I  can  earn  money  ?' ' 

' '  Yes,  you  have  only  to  do  as  I  ask,  and  you  shall  receive 
the  greater  part  of  my  pay." 


3o8  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

*'  But  something  tells  me  that  this  is  not  right,  Theron  ; 
at  least,  not  yet." 

He  knew  that  she  meant  not  until  they  were  married. 
But,  feeling  that  he  could  never  have  a  better  right  than  now, 
he  tried  to  satisfy  her  by  saying, 

'•  Since  I  am  yours,  body  and  soul,  can  I  not  share  that 
with  you  which  I  value  only  as  it  can  minister  to  your  com- 
fort ?  This  is  the  beginning  of  our  future  home,  and  you 
are  doing  more  to  make  it  homelike  than  I  can." 

"Oh  dear!"  she  cried,  half  pouting,  half  laughing; 
*'  do  men  always  have  their  own  way  ?" 

"  No,  my  fairy  queen.     I  will  one  day  be  your  slave." 

"  Why  not  add  that  you  will  take  the  part  of  Caliban,  and 
that  I  will  call  '  What,  ho  !  slave  !  Caliban  !  make  our  fire  ; 
fetch  in  our  wood. '  Oh  !  but  you  will  be  '  a  brave  mon- 
ster,' Theron  !" 

"  Now  I  think  of  it,  I  will  be  Prospero,  and  you  '  my 
quaint  Ariel.'     But  I  will  never  give  thee  thy  freedom." 

"  Indeed  !  this  is  reversing  the  order  ;  and  yet  I  think 
you  are  nearer  right  now.  I  am  '  to  answer  thy  best  pleas- 
ure, '  and  do  *  thy  strong  bidding. '  Your  pet  name  of  Ariel 
always  makes  me  laugh,  however,  for  you  forget  that  the 
spirit  says,  '  To  thy  strong  bidding  task  Ariel,  and  all  kis 
quality.'     Tascar  must  be  your  Ariel,  and  I  will  be " 

"  My  heart's  true  mate.  Come,  there  is  Gula  summon- 
ing us  to  supper  ;"  and  with  a  glance  that  gave  the  confid- 
ing girl  more  assurance  than  could  any  words,  he  led  her 
within  the  cabin  that  he  already  called  '*  home,"  and  to 
which  their  united  labors  were  fast  giving  a  homelike  and 
inviting  character. 

The  parting  which  soon  came  was  a  sore  trial  to  Vera, 
though,  woman-like,  she  sought  to  hide  from  her  lover  how 
deeply  she  was  pained.  She  comforted  herself  with  his  as- 
surance, however,  that  in  all  probability  he  would  not  be 
far  away,  and  that  he  could  often  visit  her. 


A  HASTY  MA RRIA GE.  309 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


A    HASTY    MARRIAGE. 


ON  reaching  the  headquarters  of  the  force  defending  the 
Highlands,  Saville  received  a  warm  welcome  from 
his  old  associates  and  acquaintances.  And  yet  he  could  not 
help  noting  something  in  their  manner  which  both  puzzled 
and  annoyed  him.  He,  at  first,  suspected  that  Surgeon 
Jasper  had  gossiped  concerning  his  fair  hostess  and  nurse  ; 
and,  therefore,  drew  him  aside,  with  the  intention  of  teach- 
ing him  and  others  a  severe  lesson,  in  case  his  surmise  proved 
correct.  In  matters  personal  to  himself  Saville  was  one  to 
resent  promptly,  even  to  the  extent  of  a  bloody  quarrel,  any- 
thing which  he  regarded  as  an  unwarrantable  interference  or 
liberty. 

* '  Jasper,"  he  said,  ' '  I  cannot  believe  that  you  could  have 
so  far  forgotten  the  confidential  relations  which  you,  as  my 
medical  adviser,  sustained  to  me,  as  to  babble  of  anything 
you  saw  or  surmised  when  attending  me  in  the  mountains  ; 
and  yet  what  does  the  peculiar  manner  of  my  old  acquaint- 
ances mean  ?  Why  do  they  turn  and  look  after  me,  and  say 
something  that  is  not  designed  for  my  ears  ?" 

"  You  are  right,  Saville.  I  am  not  capable  of  breaking 
professional  silence,  even  if  I  had  no  friendly  regard  for  you. 
Come  to  my  quarters." 

On  reaching  them,  the  surgeon  fastened  the  door,  and 
took  out  a  New  York  paper. 

"  Read  that,"  he  said. 


3IO  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  Mother?"   asked  Saville,  turning  pale. 

**  No,  no  !     Read  !" 

With  a  frown  black  as  night,  Saville  read  : 

"M>arried,  on  the  12th  of  October,  Captain  Henry  Vennam,  of 
H.  R.  M.  Service,  to  Mrs.  Julia  Ashburton  Saville,  widow  of  the 
late  Captain  Saville,  who  was  killed  during  the  storming  of  the  forts 
in  the  Highlands  on  the  Hudson.  It  is  well  known  that  Mrs.  Sa- 
ville had  no  sympathy  with  her  husband,  in  his  unnatural  rebellion 
against  his  king,  and  that  her  loyal  hostility  to  his  disloyalty  long 
ago  led  to  a  formal  separation.  This  fact  fully  accounts  for  the 
seeming  haste  with  which  she  has  honored  with  her  hand  the  brave 
and  accomplished  officer  who  this  day  leads  her  to  the  altar." 

With  a  deep  imprecation,  Saville  crushed  the  paper  in  his 
hand,  and  then  sat  motionless,  with  contracting  brows,  like 
one  trying  to  think  his  way  out  of  some  unexpected  emer- 
gency. 

"  From  one  of  our  spies  who  has  since  come  in,"  said 
the  surgeon,  '*  we  have  learned  the  additional  fact,  that  this 
fellow,  Vennam,  found  you  himself  in  the  fort,  and  brought 
away  your  sword  as  proof  of  your  death.  It  is  well  he  did 
not  use  it  to  let  out  what  little  life  you  had  left." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  would,  and  with  her  full  ap- 
proval, if  he  had  supposed  I  was  alive,"  said  Saville  ab- 
stractedly. 

"  That's  a  harsh  accusation  to  bring  against  your  wife." 

"  Curse  her  !"  cried  Saville,  starting  up  in  great  agita- 
Won.  '*  That  is  the  most  infernal  part  of  this  whole  shame» 
ful  business  !  She  is  still  my  wife.  If  I  were  only  rid  o* 
her  forever,  I  could  forgive  the  insult  of  her  indecent  haste 
in  seeking  the  altar  with  another  man.  But  the  law  still 
binds  me  to  her,  as  fiendish  cruelty  once  chained  criminals 
to  a  putrefying  corpse. ' ' 

*'  It's  only  too  true,  Saville.  Her  marriage  with  that 
ofi&cer  was  only  an  empty  form.     Will  she  remain  with  him, 


A   HASTY  MARRIAGE.  311 

do  you  think  ?  She  must  have  heard  that  you  are  alive  by 
this  time." 

* '  I  don' t  know, ' '  said  Saville  desperately.  ' '  She  is  none 
too  good.  If  she  would  only  break  her  neck  before  she 
breaks  my  heart !" 

"  Well,  Saville,  pardon  me  for  saying  it  ;  but  I  think  you 
will  find  both  comfort  and  revenge  in  yonder  moun- 
tains." 

"Jasper,"  said  Saville  gravely,  "  you  are  my  friend  ;  but 
touch  lightly  on  that  subject.  If  I  were  free  to  marr}'  that 
innocent  maiden,  who,  you  know  well,  is  unrivaled  in  all 
that  can  win  respect  and  love,  I  would  esteem  it  more  than 
the  best  gift  of  the  world.  She  saved  my  life  when  that  vile 
tning  the  law  calls  my  wife  was  waiting  with  murderous 
eagerness  to  hear  of  my  death." 

"  I  admit  that  you  cannot  legally  marry  your  wild  flower  ; 
but  you  know  what  men  do  every  day,  and  without  a  tithe 
of  your  excuse.  She  is  evidently  the  daughter  of  a  criminal, 
and  can  never  hope  for  any  better  future  than  you  can 
offer." 

"  The  honest  love  and  devoted,  lifelong  loyalty  which  I 
would  offer  I  believe  to  be  right  and  honorable.  Do  you 
suppose  that  I  could  ask  that  true,  pure  girl,  to  whom  I 
owe  so  much,  to  do  anything  that  I  regarded  as  base,  or 
even  wrong  ?  That  she  is  friendless  and  defenseless  ;  that 
her  father,  who  should  be  her  natural  protector,  has  only 
darkened  her  life  by  some  evil  deed,  all  make  it  more  im- 
perative that  I,  as  a  man  of  honor,  should  be  faithful  to  her 
interests.  I  do  most  sincerely  believe  that  I  have  a  right  to 
offer  her  my  love  ;  but,  with  her  faith  and  training,  I  fear 
that  I  can  never  make  it  appear  so  to  her,  when  she  comes 
to  know  of  that  woman  in  New  York." 

"  Well,"  said  the  surgeon,  with  a  shrug,  "  I  am  neither 
Christian  nor  philosopher.     I  take  the  world  as  I  find  it,  and 


312  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

try  to  have  as  comfortable  a  time  as  I  can  every  day,  hoping 
that  the  good  luck  which  I  have  always  had  here  will  follow 
me  into  the  next  life,  if  there  is  any." 

"Well  added,"  replied  Saville  bitterly;  "  *  if  there  is 
any  ! '  If  men  used  their  reason,  and  believed  what  they 
saw,  they  would  know  there  is  not.  This  life  would  be 
abundantly  sufficient,  and  in  the  main  happy,  did  not  super- 
stition and  the  monstrous  la^s  it  has  spawned  curse  and 
thwart  us  on  every  side.  But,  farewell,  my  friend  ;  I  have 
much  to  think  of,  and  I  will  inflict  my  ill-starred  affairs  on 
you  no  longer.  Let  all  that  has  passed  between  us  be 
buried  where  no  gossip-monger  can  ever  rake  it  up." 

After  carefully  considering  the  act  of  his  wife  in  all  its 
aspects,  Saville  concluded  that  it  would  be  to  his  advantage. 
The  haste  of  her  marriage,  which  she  had  intended  as  an 
indignity  to  his  memory,  would  react  against  herself,  and 
involve  more  shame  to  her  than  to  him.  His  hate  was  grat- 
ified at  the  thought  of  her  intense  mortification  and  disap- 
pointment when  learning  that  he  was  still  living.  She  must 
either  separate  instantly  from  the  man  for  whom  she  had  a 
passion — of  love  she  was  not  capable — or  else  be  disgraced 
for  life.  At  best,  even  her  own  party  would  be  far  more  in- 
clined toward  censure  than  to  entertain  charity  or  sympathy. 

He  also  felt  utterly  absolved  from  what  he  regarded  as  his 
rash  promise  to  be  ioyal  to  the  mere  name  of  wife. 

But  the  consideration  which  weighed  most  with  him  was 
the  belief  that  Vera,  in  view  of  her  act,  could  be  made  to 
feel  that  in  reality  he  had  no  wife,  that  she  had  forfeited 
every  claim,  and  so  might  be  more  surely  led  to  accept  of 
Saville  as  her  lover,  since  he  could  not  be  her  husband. 

The  fact  that  a  certain  amount  of  the  odium  of  his  wife's 
course  would  cling  to  him  in  the  world's  estimation,  and 
that  he  would  always  be  known  as  the  husband  of  the  woman 
whe  was  in  such  haste  to  mairy  another  that  she  could  not 


A  HASTY  MARRIAGE.  S'S 

wait  till  assured  of  his  burial,  made  a  secluded  mountain 
home,  with  Vera,  seem  all  the  more  truly  a  refuge. 

Thus,  every  hope  for  the  future  oftme  to  rest,  more  com- 
pletely than  before,  on  the  success  of  his  scheme  of  teaching 
Vera  that  man  was  a  law  unto  himself,  and  that  there  was 
"JO  external  power  that  had  a  right  to  set  in  judgment  on  his 
actions. 

A  day  or  two  thereafter,  a  paper  came  through  the  lines, 
from  New  York,  containing  the  following  item  : 

"  Truth  Stranger  than  Fiction.— Captain  Saville,  whom  all 
supposed  killed  at  Fort  Clinton,  is  alive.  It  is  said  that  he  was 
taken  from  the  fort,  late  at  night,  by  some  people  whom  he  had  be- 
friended,  and  carried  back  in  the  mountains  ;  and  that,  though  very 
severely'wounded.  he  is  rapidly  recovering.  These  facts  are  so  well 
authenticated  that  his  wife  has  left  Captain  Vennam's  quarters. 
and  returned  to  her  relatives.  It  is  said  that  they  are  deeply  in- 
censed  against  the  unfortunate  officer,  who  rather  deserves  sym- 
pathy, since  he  has  become,  in  a  certain  sense,  a  widower.  There 
seems  to  have  been  strange  blundering  in  the  case  somewhere. 
Perhaps  the  eyes  of  the  gallant  captain  were  still  blinded  with  the 
smoke  of  battle,  when  he  supposed  that  he  saw  Saville  dead. 
There  may  be  new  developments  in  the  comedy,  or  tragedy,  which- 
ever  it  may  prove,  before  many  days." 

Saville  smiled  grimly  as  he  read  it,  and  then  tossed  it  coa- 
temptuously  aside. 


314  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART,, 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

SEEMING   SUCCESS. 

LATER  in  the  day,  Saville  received  a  document  v4iidi 
he  read  with  keen  deUghL  It  was  a  leave  of  absence 
from  his  commanding  ofi&cer,  in  which  he  was  compHmented 
on  his  behavior  in  the  recent  battle,  and  congratulated  upon 
his  remarkable  escape.  "  The  campaign  is  over,"  the  writer 
went  on  to  say,  ' '  and  it  is  not  yet  fully  decided  just  where, 
in  the  Highlands,  the  future  works  will  be  erected.  Sur- 
geon Jasper  also  informs  me  that,  in  your  zeal  for  the  ser- 
vice, you  have  reported  for  duty  rather  sooner  than  the  con- 
dition of  your  wound  warrants.  You  are  therefore  requested 
to  leave  your  address  at  these  headquarters,  and  are  permitted 
to  be  absent  until  notified." 

"  Jasper,  this  is  your  work,"  said  Saville,  entering  the 
surgeon's  quarters. 

"  Well,  suppose  it  is  ;  what  have  you  got  to  say  about 
it  ?"  replied  Jasper,  lifting  his  broad,  good-natured  face  to 
the  speaker. 

"  I  say  this,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  mon  ami,  may 
you  never  have  to  take  any  of  your  own  medicine  !" 

"  Amen  I"  cried  the  surgeon.  "  I  was  never  wished  bet- 
ter luck  than  that  But  hold  on,  you  are  not  through  with 
me  yet  I  jogged  the  general's  elbow  only  that  I  might 
get  a  chance  to  jockey  you  on  a  horse.  I've  a  beast  that's 
a  little  too  skittish  for  one  of  my  weight  and  temperament, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  I  gave  you  a  chance  to  make 
I  quick  journey,  you  would  buy  him." 


SEEMING  SUCCESS.  3^5 

*'  Name  your  price  ;  charge  what  you  please  ;  I'm  wholly 
at  your  mercy,"  laughed  Saville. 

' '  That  is  the  condition  in  which  I  always  like  to  get  a 
patient,  for  I  can  then  bleed  him  to  ray  own  satisfaction. 
But  if  you  were  not  my  friend,  Saville,  I  would  charge  you 
twice  as  much  as  I  am  going  to  ask." 

The  bargain  was  soon  made,  nor  did  Saville  regret  it, 
when,  on  the  follov/ing  short  November  day,  the  fleet  animal 
carried  him  safely  to  the  mountain  gorge  that  he  hoped  would 
henceforth  be  the  Mecca  of  all  his  pilgrimages. 

He  did  not  go  clattering  down  the  bridle  path  ;  but,  tying 
his  horse  some  distance  away,  stole  up  to  the  cabin  unper- 
ceived,  and  looked  in  at  the  window.  How  vividly,  in  after 
years,  he  remembered  the  picture  he  then  saw  !  Vera  sat 
alone,  on  one  side  of  the  ample  hearth  ;  her  work  had  fallen 
on  the  floor  at  her  side,  and  her  hands  were  creased  upon 
her  lap.  She  was  looking  intently  into  the  fire,  as  if  she 
saw  more  there  than  the  rising  and  falling  flames,  which  now 
illumined  herfece  until  its  beauty  seemed  scarcely  earthly,  and 
again  left  it  in  shadow  that  suggested  almost  equal  lovelinesa 

Her  revery  soon  ended  with  a  happy  smile  ;  she  picked 
up  her  work,  and  seemed  chiding  her  idle  hands  ;  then,  in 
obedience  to  another  impulse,  she  dropped  it  again,  and  her 
rich,  powerful  voice  gave  the  old  refrain, 

"  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows.* 

She  had  scarcely  sung  the  line  before  Saville  was  accom- 
panying her  on  his  flute.  She  stopped  abruptly,  and  sprang 
up,  with  hope  and  fear  both  depicted  on  her  face.  Was 
the  echo  real,  or  a  ghostly  omen  of  evil  ?  She  darted  to  the 
door,  and  Saville  took  her  into  his  arms. 

How  fondly  she  ever  dwelt  on  the  halcyon  days  that  fol- 
lowed !  They  hunted  and  rambled  together  among  the  hills 
that  love  made  beautiful,  even  in  bleak  November  ;  and 


3X6  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

when  the  storms  of  early  winter  roared  in  the  wooded  heights 
above  the  cabin,  the  roar  of  the  crackling  flames  up  the  wide 
chimney  was  louder,  and  the  sound  of  their  merry  voices 
often  louder  still.  Their  mirthfulness,  at  times,  relaxed  even 
the  gloomy  face  of  the  poor  exile,  and  he  appeared  to  enjoy 
a  pale  reflection  of  their  happiness. 

Saville  also  sought  to  make  the  most  of  the  opportunity 
which  this  visit  gave,  by  commencing  to  give  Vera  a  culture 
which  would  make  her  more  companionable  in  future  years. 
He  gave  her  lessons  in  drawing  and  music,  and  found  her  a 
most  apt  scholar  in  these  branches.  He  also  taught  her  how 
to  express  herself  correctly  in  writing,  and  in  the  evening  she 
usually  read  aloud  to  him  for  an  hour  or  more. 

He  succeeded  in  obtaining  quite  a  library  for  her.  Learn- 
ing that  among  the  effects  of  a  wealthy  Tory,  whose  property 
!^d  been  confiscated,  there  was  a  large  number  of  books, 
he  went  to  see  them,  and  found  that  he  could  buy  them  all 
for  a  small  sum.  He  did  not  wish  them  all,  but  only  such 
as  would  serve  his  purpose,  and  give  Vera  general  culture 
and  knowledge,  without  strengthening  her  faith.  To  his 
joy,  he  found  that  the  library  was  quite  rich,  for  that  day, 
in  history,  travels,  biography,  and  even  philosophy.  It  also 
contained  some  of  the  Latin  classics,  a  translation  of  Homer, 
and  the  "  Plays  of  William  Shakspeare, "  which  he  knew  to 
be  so  dear  to  Vera's  heart.  He  and  Tascar,  who  accom- 
panied him,  were  quite  well  laden  on  their  return  ;  and  Vera, 
at  first,  was  wild  with  delight  over  these  treasures.  She 
looked  hastily  and  eageriy  through  the  collection,  and  then 
sighed  deeply. 

"  What  does  that  mean  V  asked  Saville. 

'•  There  is  no  Bible  here,"   she  replied  in  a  low  tone. 

"  No,  Vera,"  he  said  gravely,  and  almost  sternly  ;  for  he 
was  beginning  to  regard  this  book  with  bitter  hostility,  as  the 
possible  cause,  in  his  view,  of  wretchedness  to  them  both. 


SEEMING  SUCCESS.  317 

Tears  cams  into  the  sensitive  girl's  eyes  ;  but  he  kissed 
^em  away,  and  sought,  with  his  usual  success,  to  divert  her 
thoughts  from  the  subject  he  most  dreaded.  He  believed 
that  he  could  educate  her  mind  above  and  beyond  her  su» 
perstition,  and  thus  enable  her  gradually  and  naturally  to 
outgrow  it,  as  he  supposed  that  he  had.  In  this  effort,  he 
made  history  and  books  of  travel  his  chief  allies,  thinking 
that  they  were  best  suited  to  the  simplicity  and  childlike 
character  of  her  mind.  He  skillfully,  yet  unobtrusively, 
caused  her  to  see  that  othsr  peoples  and  races  were  as  de- 
voted to  their  multifarious  religions  as  she  was  to  hers.  Ha 
placed  before  her,  though  in  no  argumentative  way  th^ 
would  awaken  opposition,  the  absurd,  cruel,  and  monstrous 
acts  of  those  who  had  professed  to  be  Christians.  He  sup- 
plemented what  he  read  with  graphic  descriptions.  The  old 
Greeks  and  Romans  were  made  to  live  again,  and  she  was 
shown  that  their  mythology,  which  lasted  for  centuries,  was 
now  in  truth  only  a  myth,  and  that,  as  the  people  grew 
wiser,  they  lost  faith  in  their  gods. 

Vera  was  not  slow  in  drawing  the  inference,  and  clouds 
of  doubt  began  to  darken  her  mind  ;  but  it  seemed  so  dread- 
ful to  question  her  mother's  faith,  that  she  fought  against 
her  unbelief  earnestly,  though  secretly  ;  for  she  knew  that 
she  could  obtain  no  help  from  Saville.  These  doubts,  how- 
ever, became  a  low,  jarring  discord  in  the  sweet  harmony  of 
her  life. 

But  his  personal  influence  had  a  still  stronger  effect  than 
his  suggestion  of  abstract  thought,  and  of  facts  adverse  to 
her  faith.  He  one  day  obtained  quite  a  clear  glimpse  of  the 
silent  workings  of  her  mind  ;  for,  coming  m  unexpectedly, 
he  found  her  in  tears.  To  his  gentle  but  eager  questioning, 
she  sobbed, 

'  *  O  Theron  !  you  are  pushing  God,  and  all  relating  to 
Him,  out  of  my  heart  and  thoughts,  and  I  am  beginning 


3l8  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

to  worship  only  you.     My  conscience  tells  me  that  it  is  not 

right,  and  that  evil  will  come  of  it." 

"Well,  Vera,  darling,"  he  said,  "this  is  scarcely  more 
than  fair,  since  you  fill  every  nook  and  comer  of  my  heart, 
and  I  have  long  worshiped  you  only." 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  new  rush  of  tears  ;  but  he 
comforted  her  with  many  reassuring  words,  and  she  loved 
him  too  well  to  be  willing  to  cloud  his  face  with  her  trouble. 
Her  conscious  effort  to  resist  his  personal  influence  grew  less 
and  less,  and  he  seemingly  took  sole  possession  of  her  heart 

As  she  was  situated,  she  was  scarcely  to  be  blamed,  for  he 
had  proved  such  a  true  and  helpful  friend  ;  he  had  made 
such  an  infinite  difference  in  her  life,  and  was  so  genuinely 
human,  so  sympathetic  in  all  respects,  save  the  one  on  which 
they  differed,  that  her  own  humanity  found  in  him  every- 
thing it  craved.  Even  in  his  skepticism,  she  was  compelled 
to  respect  him  for  his  evident  sincerity. 

Still,  she  did  not  lose  her  faith  in  God,  nor  did  she  often 
neglect  the  form  of  devotion  ;  but  she  permitted  Saville's 
Image  to  crowd  Him  almost  wholly  from  her  heart  and 
thoughts. 

Saville  occasionally  sent  Tascar  with  a  note  of  inquiry  to 
Surgeon  Jasper,  and  thus  kept  himself  posted  in  regard  to 
public  affairs.  During  'che  latter  part  of  January,  he  was 
ordered  to  report  to  Lieutenant-Colonel  Radiere,  and  found, 
to  his  great  satisfaction,  that  his  services  would  be  required 
at  West  Point,  from  which  place  he  could  ride  "  home"  in 
comparatively  brief  time.  The  winter  and  spring  passed 
rapidly  away.  His  hopes  continually  grew  stronger,  that 
his  effort  to  teach  Vera  to  eventually  feel  and  think  as  he 
did,  would  be  crowned  with  success,  and  he  was  even  more 
Eure  that  he  had  made  himself  so  necessary  to  her  very  ex- 
istence that  she  could  never  give  him  up,  even  though  hef 
conscience  at  first  might  be  arrayed  against  him. 


4t  MASTER  MIND  AND  WILL,  319 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A    MASTER    MIXB    AND    WILL. 

EARLY  in  the  summer,  Saville  received  instructicaas  te 
go  to  the  main  army  under  General  Washington, 
and  thence  to  Philadelphia  (which  had  recently  been  evacu- 
ated by  the  British  troops),  upon  business  connected  \«ntb 
the  Engineer  Department. 

On  his  way  he  stopped  at  the  cabin,  to  inform  Vera  of  hif 
lourney,  but  assured  her  of  his  speedy  return.  She  grew 
?»ie  at  the  thought  of  the  possible  perils  which  he  might  en- 
counter, but  he  promised  more  caution  than  it  was  in  his 
nature  to  practice,  and  also  said,  with  a  significant  glance, 
that  awakened  a  curicKit}'  which  he  would  not  then  satisfy, 
that  he  would  bring  her  something  from  Philadelphia. 

He  reached  General  Washington's  headquarters  on  the 
eve  of  the  memorable  battle  of  Monmouth,  Though  jaded 
and  worn  by  his  ride,  he  readily  accepted  Lafayette's  invita- 
tion to  act  as  his  aid,  his  services  being  specially  valuable  at 
this  time,  from  his  familiarity  with  both  French  and  English. 

The  command  of  the  extreme  advance,  upon  which  would 
devolve  the  important  task  of  first  attacking  the  enemy  pre- 
liminary to  a  general  engagement,  would  properly  fall  to 
General  Lee,  who  was  second  to  Washington  in  rank.  But 
Lafayette,  ever  coveting  the  post  of  danger,  eagerly  sought 
to  be  intrusted  with  this  duty.  As  General  Lee  had  been 
from  the  first  strenuously  opposed  to  the  battle,  and,  in- 
deed, to  any  interference  with  the  British  line  of  mardi 


320  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

through  New  Jersey,  Washington  was  more  than  ready  to 
comply,  if  that  officer  would  waive  his  right  to  lead  in  per- 
son. This  General  Lee  did  unhesitatingly,  saying  to  the 
Marquis,  that  he  was  only  too  glad  to  be  relieved  from  all 
responsibility  in  carrying  out  measures  which  were  destined 
to  fail. 

Lafayette,  therefore,  early  on  the  morning  of  the  27th  of 
June,  advanced  with  a  large  force  toward  the  enemy.  The 
British  troops  were  commanded  by  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  who, 
perceiving  that  a  battle  must  be  fought,  made  his  disposi- 
tions accordingly,  moving  his  baggage  forward  on  his  line 
of  march,  but  retaining  the  flower  of  his  army  in  the  rear  to 
repel  the  approaching  Americans.  In  the  mean  time.  Gen- 
eral Lee  changed  his  mind,  and  requested  Washington  to 
give  him  the  leadership  of  the  advance  which  he  had  just  re- 
linquished. Indeed,  as  a  matter  of  military  etiquette,  he  al- 
most claimed  it  as  his  right.  Although  Lee  had  been  bit- 
terly opposed  to  Washington's  plan  of  battle,  the  latter  still 
believed  the  crotchety  general  would  do  his  duty  as  an 
officer,  but  did  not  know  how  to  satisfy  his  punctilious 
claims  without  wounding  Lafayette.  Learning,  however, 
that  the  British  forces  immediately  before  the  Marquis  were 
being  rapidly  increased,  he  dispatched  two  additional 
brigades  to  the  front,  under  command  of  Lee,  who,  as  senior 
officer  on  the  field,  would,  as  a  matter  of  course,  outrank 
all  others.  But  Washington's  friendship  for  Lafayette  also 
led  him  to  vn:ite  him  a  note  of  explanation. 

That  sultry  Saturday  night  was  one  of  deep  anxiety  to 
both  parties.  The  British  general  was  encumbered  with  an 
enormous  amount  of  baggage.  Washington  was  about  to 
assail  the  disciplined  troops,  whom  Lee  said  it  was  madness 
to  attack  in  their  present  force  and  strong  position. 

None  who  were  burdened  with  responsibility  slept,  and 
tven   Saville,  though  very  weary,  was  kept  awake   by  the 


A   MASTER  MIND  AND    WILL.  32 1 

thought,  that  in  a  very  few  hours  he  might  enter  on  the 
dreamless  sleep  which  his  love  now  made  him  dread  un- 
speakably ;  and  that,  should  desperate  wounds  leave  him 
helpless  on  the  field.  Vera  was  too  far  away  to  seek  him 
again. 

At  midnight  there  was  a  stir  and  the  heavy  tread  of  men. 
Washington,  who  has  been  characterized  as  over-cautious, 
was  so  resolutely  bent  on  fighting  Clinton,  that  he  had  sent 
orders  for  a  large  detachment  to  move  up  close  to  the  ene- 
my's lines,  and  to  hold  the  British  general  in  check,  should 
he  attempt  to  decamp  in  the  darkness. 

At  daylight,  expresses  galloped  to  Lee  and  to  Washington 
with  the  tidings  that  the  enemy  were  moving.  The  chief 
put  the  main  army  into  motion  instantly,  and  gave  orderi 
that  the  men  should  throw  aside  blankets  and  every  imped- 
ing weight.  Lee  remained  inert  until  positive  orders  spurred 
him  into  action.  He  then  advanced,  it  is  true,  but  lan- 
guidly, very  cautiously,  without  definite  purpose,  and  with- 
out concert  with  his  supporting  generals. 

By  his  direction.  General  Wayne  gained  a  position  where 
he  was  certain  he  could  deal  the  enemy  a  tremendous  blow  ; 
but  was  checked  in  the  very  act  of  striking,  that  Lee  himself 
might  carry  out  a  brilliant  piece  of  strategy,  which  ended, 
however,  in  a  feeble  and  purposeless  demonstration. 

Lafayette  saw  an  opportunity  to  gain  the  rear  of  a  body  of 
the  enemy  marching  against  them,  and  spurred  to  Lee,  that 
he  might  obtain  permission  to  make  the  attempt. 

* '  Sir, ' '  was  the  reply,  ' '  you  do  not  know  British 
soldiers  ;  we  cannot  stand  against  them  ;  we  shall  certainly 
be  driven  back  at  first,  and  we  must  be  cautious." 

"It  may  be  so.  General,"  Lafayette  replied;  "but 
British  soldiers  have  been  beaten,  and  they  may  be  again  ; 
at  any  rate,  I  am  disposed  to  make  the  trial." 

Lee  then  gave  Lafayette  permission  to  carry  out  his  plaE 


^22  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

in  part.  A  little  later,  one  of  Washington's  aids  arrived 
upon  the  field  in  quest  of  information,  and  the  marquis  sent 
back  emphatic  word  to  his  chief  that  his  presence  was 
needed. 

Before  the  halfway  measure  which  Lee  proposed  could  be 
carried  out,  the  permission  was  recalled,  and  the  gallant 
Frenchman  was  ordered  to  fall  back,  though  why  he  could 
not  tell.  He  chafed  like  a  chained  lion,  and  now  felt  that 
the  man  whom  he  must  obey  was  either  a  traitor  or  a  coward. 

Saville  was  deeply^ chagrined  ;  for  Lee,  from  his  outspoken 
skepticism  and  innovating  tendencies,  was  one  of  his  heroes. 

This  hesitation,  this  marching  and  countermarching,  and 
cautious  feeling  around,  gave  Sir  Henry  Clinton  just  the 
time  he  needed.  His  immense  train  of  baggage  was  well 
out  of  the  way,  guarded  by  a  strong  force  under  General 
Knyphausen,  so  he  now  decidedly  took  the  initiative,  by 
hurling  the  bulk  of  his  army,  under  Lord  Comwallis,  against 
the  dilatory  Americans,  who  had  been  wasting  their  time 
and  strength  in  purposeless  skirmishing. 

The  whole  advance  guard  of  the  army  under  Lee  was  soon 
falling  back,  some  with  orders  and  some  without,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  the  retrograde  movement  developed  into  a 
disgraceful  retreat.  As  the  enemy  pressed  faster  and  near- 
er, panic  seized  upon  the  Continental  forces,  and  all  the 
awful  consequences  followed  inevitably.  The  day  was  in- 
tensely hot,  and  the  unclouded  sun  smote  many  a  poor  fel- 
low to  the  earth  in  surer  death  than  the  thickly-flying  bul- 
lets. The  already  wearied  men  sank  ankle-deep  into  the 
yielding  sand,  and  those  who,  through  feebleness,  wounds, 
or  fatigue,  fell  in  the  way,  were  trampled  by  the  strong  in 
their  reckless  flight. 

And  yet  Washington  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  There  had 
been  no  indications  of  heavy  fighting  in  his  front.  To  all 
tiie  wretched  blunders  of  that  morning  Lee  added  the  mos? 


A   MASTER  MIND  AND    WILL.  323 

unpardonable,  when  he  failed  to  inform   his  chief  that  he 
was  falling  back  ;  for  he  thereby  endangered  the  entire  army. 

The  first  intimation  that  Washington  received  of  what  had 
occurred  was  the  appearance  of  breathless,  terror-stricken 
fugitives.  With  rare  presence  of  mind,  he  ordered  them 
under  arrest,  lest  they  should  communicate  their  tidings  tc 
the  main  body  of  the  army,  which  was  advancing  to  Lee'g 
support  ;  for  there  is  no  contagion  so  mysterious  and  awf ally 
rapid  in  its  transmission  as  that  of  a  panic. 

Still  hoping  that  the  report  was  unfounded,  he  sprang  upon 
his  horse,  and  spurred  toward  the  front  ;  but  the  increasing 
stream  of  fugitives,  and  then  the  heads  of  the  retreating 
columns,  soon  convinced  him  that  the  disaster  which  he  be- 
lieved impossible  had  taken  place.  He  asked  several  officers 
in  the  retreating  column  what  it  all  meant.  No  one  knew. 
One  smiled  significantly,  another  was  angry,  while  a  third 
declared,  with  an  oath,  that  "  they  were  flying  from  a 
shadow." 

Washington  was  ever  slow  to  suspect  others  of  evil,  but 
the  thought  now  flashed  into  his  mind  that  Lee  was  making 
good  his  predictions  of  defeat,  by  his  own  cowardly  or 
treacherous  action.  He  stopped  to  ask  no  more  questions, 
but,  ordering  the  commander  of  the  first  division  to  form  his 
men  on  the  first  rising  ground,  he,  with  his  staff,  swept 
across  the  causeway,  past  the  disorderly  fugitives,  his  anger 
kindling  as  he  rode.  The  frown  upon  his  brow  grew  black 
as  night,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  Lee,  who  was  leading 
the  retreat  of  the  second  division,  his  appearance  was  terrible. 
Saville,  who  rode  near,  with  Lafayette,  was  deeply  awed, 
and,  were  not  the  proof  before  him,  could  not  have  believed 
that  a  human  face  could  become  so  powerful  in  its  indig' 
nation. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  sir .?"  Washington  de- 
manded, in  a  tone  that  was  stern  even  to  fierceness. 


324  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART, 

*  Sir— sir,"  stammered  Lee,  at  first  overwhelmed  by 
Washington's  manner. 

"  I  desire  to  know  the  meaning  of  this  disorder  and  con- 
fusion," was  again  demanded,  and  with  still  greater  vehe- 
mence. 

' '  You  know  that  the  attack  was  contrary  to  my  advice 
and  opinion — "   Lee  began. 

•'  You  should  not  have  undertaken  the  command,  unless 
you  intended  to  carry  it  through." 

Lee's  irascible  spirit  was  now  stung  to  rage,  and  he  made 
ftn  angry  repty,  which  drew  from  Washington  still  sharper 
expressions.  For  a  moment,  the  incensed  generals  con- 
fronted each  other,  like  two  thunder-clouds  that  are  flashing 
their  lightnings  back  and  forth,  as  if  within  the  dark  folds  of 
each  there  was  a  vindictive  will. 

Lee  sought  to  give  a  hurried  explanation,  which  ended 
with  the  assertion  that  the  ground  was  unfavorable,  and  that 
he  was  not  disposed  to  beard  the  whole  British  army  with 
troops  in  such  a  situation. 

"  I  have  certain  information,"  rejoined  Washington, 
"  that  it  was  merely  a  strong  covering  party. " 

"  That  may  be  ;  but  it  was  stronger  than  mine,  and  I 
did  not  think  proper  to  run  such  a  risk." 

*'  I  am  very  sorry,"  was  the  reply,  "  that  you  undertook 
the  command,  unless  you  meant  to  fight  the  enemy." 

"  I  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  bring  on  a  general  engage- 
ment." 

' '  Whatever  your  opinion  may  have  been, ' '  answered 
Washington  disdainfully,  "  I  expected  my  orders  would 
have  been  obeyed." 

All  this  had  passed  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  and,  as  it 
were,  in  flashes,  and  yet  too  much  time  had  been  wasted, 
tor  the  enemy  were  but  a  few  minutes'  march  away  from 
them.     Casting  Lee  aside,  as  he  might  a  broken  reed.  Wash* 


A   MASTER  MIND  AND    WILL.  325 

ington  ordered  that  the  head  of  the  second  division,  instead 
of  continuing  its  retreat,  should  form  instantly  in  line  of 
battle.  Then,  wheeling  his  horse,  he  dashed  to  the  rear  of 
the  American  column,  and  toward  the  advancing  enemy, 
who  were  now  close  upon  the  confused  and  disordered  rem- 
nant of  Lee's  troops. 

Until  Washington  appeared,  the  poor  fellows  were  in  sore 
straits.  Their  retreat  had  been  checked  ;  they  were  standing 
helplessly  in  the  road,  artillery  and  infantry  huddled  together. 
No  one  knew  what  to  do,  or  how  the  miserable  blundering 
of  the  day  would  end.  Only  one  thing  was  definite  and 
certain — the  solid  columns  of  their  pursuers  were  now  al- 
most upon  them.  They  were  on  the  eve  of  a  headlong  anc 
disastrous  flight,  when  Washington,  with  his  staff,  galloped 
up,  and  his  presence  and  inspiring  mien  sent  an  electric 
thrill  of  hope  and  courage  to  every  fainting  heart.  The 
great  master  mind,  aroused  to  its  highest  degree  of  power, 
seemed  to  lay  a  resistless  grasp  upon  the  whole  chaotic 
mass.  It  appeared  but  a  moment  before  Colonel  Oswald's 
guns  were  posted  on  a  neighboring  eminence,  were  unlim- 
bered,  and  were  pouring  well-directed  shots  into  the  advanc- 
ing foe.  Two  other  batteries  galloped  off  to  the  left,  and 
taking  position  in  the  covert  of  woods,  were  soon  adding 
their  tremendous  echoes  to  the  deepening  uproar  of  battle. 
In  the  mean  time,  and  under  a  perfect  storm  of  bullets  and 
cannon  balls,  the  intrepid  chief  formed  the  regiments  of 
Colonels  Stewart  and  Ramsay  in  line,  and  enabled  them  to 
reply  to  the  destructive  volleys  they  were  receiving.  He 
seemed  to  bear  the  same  charmed  life  that  had  excited  the 
superstitious  wonder  of  the  savages  on  Braddock's  disastrous 
field  in  the  old  French  and  Indian  war.  Within  a  space  of 
time  so  brief  as  to  appear  incredible,  he  had  rallied  into  battle 
array  fugitives  that,  a  few  moments  before,  were  bent  only  on 
flight,  and  the  impetuous  advance  of  the  enemy  v/as  checked. 


$26,  NEAR    TO  nature: S  HEART. 

Having  made  all  the  arrangements  within  his  power,  this 
born  commander  of  men  did  a  still  greater  thing  :  he  con- 
trolled himself.  Riding  back  to  Lee,  in  calmer  mood,  he 
asked, 

"  Will  you  retain  the  command  on  this  height  or  not? 
If  you  will,  I  will  return  to  the  main  body,  and  have  it 
formed  on  the  next  height." 

"  It  is  equal  to  me  where  I  command,"  replied  Lee. 

"  I  expect  you  will  take  proper  means  for  checking  th« 
enemy,"   said  Washington. 

'*  Your  orders  shall  be  obeyed  ;  and  I  shall  not  be  tha 
first  to  leave  the  ground." 

Availing  himself  of  the  respite  which  his  own  masterly 
action  had  secured,  Washington  spurred  back  to  the  main 
army,  which,  under  his  rapid  orders,  soon  bristled  along  the 
next  height 

But  he  had  left  something  of  his  own  iron  will  amo!^ 
those  who  were  now  sustaining  the  enemy's  attack.  Hia 
clarion  voice,  which  had  resounded  above  the  din,  was  stiU 
echoing  in  their  hearts,  and  the  grand  excitement  which  bad 
animated  his  face  made  a  hero  of  every  soldier  in  the  iittle 
force  which  the  enemy's  bullets  were  fast  thinning. 

They  maintained  their  position  gallantly  for  some  little 
time,  and  when,  at  last,  the  left  wing  gave  way,  pushed  back 
by  the  weight  of  numbers,  and  emerged  on  the  further  side 
of  the  woods  toward  Washington,  both  of  the  contending 
parties  seemed  intermingled  in  a  hand-to-hand  mele'e. 

The  enemy  next  attacked  Vamum's  brigade,  posted  neaj 
the  causeway,  across  which  the  Americans  must  retreat,  and 
here  the  conflict  raged  severely  for  some  time. 

As  Saville  was  carrying  an  order  across  the  field  to  a  bat- 
tery that  was  doing  effective  service,  he  was  hailed  by  a 
familiar  voice,  and  turning,  saw  his  old  acquaintance,  Caps- 
tain  Molly,  coming  toward  him  with  a  bucket  of  water. 


A   MASTER  MIND  AND    WILL.  327 

'*  The  Holy  Vargin  bless  ye,  Misther  Saville  !"  she  cried. 
*'  I  fale  safe,  now  I  know  that  ye' re  around," 

"  Ah,  Molly,  my  brave  girl  !  is  that  you  ?"  he  replied, 
*'  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  Faix,  sur,  while  Larry  is  givin'  the  Red-coats  fire,  I'm 
givin'  him  wather, '* 

"  Can  you  spare  me  a  drop  ?  for  I'm  half  perished  with 
thirst  in  this  infernal  heat  and  dust." 

"  Take  all  ye  want,  and  welcome.  What  are  a  few 
dhraps  of  wather,  when  ye  spilt  yer  blood  for  me  ?" 

"  IMolly,  you  are  a  jewel  !  What  did  you  do  for  me? 
Larry  may  well  be  proud  of  you." 

"  Och  !   poor  man  I     I'm  better  to  him  now " 

A  cannon  ball  was  whizzing  toward  them  ;  a  second  later. 
Larry  was  a  bleeding  corpse  beside  his  gun. 

Molly  saw  him  fall  as  she  turned.  With  a  wild  shriek  she 
dropped  her  pail,  rushed  to  his  side,  and  throwing  herself 
upon  his  mangled  form,  gave  utterance  to  loud  cries  of 
grief. 

The  officer  in  charge  of  the  battery  was  about  to  withdraw 
the  gun,  as  he  now  had  no  one  competent  to  work  it ;  but 
Molly,  obeying  another  impulse,  sprang  up,  and  dashing  her 
tears  right  and  left,  cried, 

"No,  yer  honor!  I'll  take  Larry's  place,  and  it'll  do 
me  sore  heart  good  to  send  some  o'  thim  Red-coats,  as 
killed  him,  to  the  divil  ;"  and  she  seized  the  rammer,  and 
proved  instantly  that  she  had  nerve  and  skill  for  the  task. 
With  her  dark,  piercing  eyes  ablaze  with  anger,  and  her  di- 
sheveled hair  flying  about  her  inflamed  face,  she  seemed  a 
fury  rather  than  a  woman.  When  Saville  left,  the  rapid  dis- 
charges of  the  gun  told  how  eagerly  she  was  seeking  to 
avenge  the  death  of  her  husband. 

The  British  cavalry,  and  a  heavy  body  of  infantry  at  last 
charged  simultaneously,    and   broke  the  American  ranks. 
EoE— VIII-0 


328  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

Lee  ordered  instant  retreat,  and,  with  Colonel  Ogden's  regi- 
ment, covered  the  passage  of  his  men  across  the  cause- 
wa}-. 

Molly  would  not  leave  her  husband's  body,  but  lifting  it 
on  the  gun,  she  tied  it  there,  and  then,  by  running,  kept 
near  to  the  retiring  battery,  the  troops  greeting  her  with  ac- 
clamations as  she  passed. 

The  British  forces  promptly  followed  the  hard-pressed 
Continentals  over  the  causeway,  anticipating  a  complete  vic- 
tory, and  the  battle  speedily  became  general.  But  Wash- 
ington was  now  upon  his  own  ground,  and  supported  by 
generals  in  whom  he  could  trust  implicitly.  The  enemy 
made  successive  attacks  on  his  front,  left  and  right,  but  were 
repelled.  A  tremendous  cannonade  was  kept  up  on  both 
sides,  and  seldom  had  the  peace  of  the  Sabbath  been  so 
rudely  disturbed  as  on  that  sultry  summer  day. 

General  Wayne,  whose  headlong  valor  had  justly  earned 
him  the  sobriquet  of  "  Mad  Anthony,"  occupied  an  ad- 
vanced position  in  an  orchard,  from  which  he  maintained  a 
brisk  and  galling  fire  on  the  British  centre.  He  repeatedly 
repulsed  the  Royal  Grenadiers,  who  sought  to  dislodge  him. 
It  soon  began  to  appear  that  the  success  of  the  enemy's  at- 
tack depended  on  driving  him  from  his  position. 

Saville  was  directed  by  Lafayette  to  ride  over  to  Wayne 
with  a  cheering  message,  to  watch  the  struggle,  and  report 
to  him  its  progress. 

When  Saville  reached  Wayne's  advanced  post.  Colonel 
Moncton,  who  commanded  the  Royal  Grenadiers,  was  de- 
ploying them  in  the  open  field,  as  for  a  quiet  evening 
parade.  It  was  evident  that  he  ^^'as  preparing  for  the  stern 
and  silent  use  of  the  bayonet,  on  which  the  British  troops 
justly  prided  themselves. 

When  his  men  were  in  line,  he  made  them  a  brief,  stirring 
address,  in  which  he  appealed  to  every  motive  which  could 


A  MASTER  MIND  AND    WILL.  329 

inspire  an  English  soldier  with  unflinching  courage.  His 
voice  was  distinctly  heard  by  those  awaiting  the  assault,  and 
at  times  even  his  words  were  intelligible.  He  next  placed 
himself  at  their  head,  and  led  them  in  solid  column  against 
the  Americans.  They  presented  a  truly  magnificent  sight 
in  the  warm,  mellow  light  of  the  declining  day.  With  tha 
same  firmness  and  steadiness  that  they  would  pass  in  review 
on  some  gala  occasion,  the  poor  fellows  advanced  toward  ths 
point  where  very  many  would  meet  wounds  and  death.  So 
even  and  perfect  was  their  step,  as  they  marched  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  that  a  cannon  ball  from  an  American  battery  en- 
filaded a  whole  platoon,  knocking  the  muskets  out  of  each 
man's  hand  ;  but,  with  scarce  a  change  in  muscle,  the  ob- 
scure heroes  strode  on  with  their  comrades,  although  un- 
armed. Moncton  walked  at  their  head,  erect,  stately,  reso- 
lute, and  his  bearing  was  emulated  by  every  officer  in  the 
column.  Their  silent  progress  was  more  impressive  than  if 
every  step  was  accompanied  by  shouts  and  volleys.  Their 
march  was  the  very  sublimity  of  courage,  the  perfect 
flower  of  discipline,  and  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  be  resist- 
less. 

They  are  now  within  a  few  rods  of  their  equally  silent, 
waiting  foe  ;  and  yet  there  is  no  hesitation,  no  change  in 
Ae  time  of  their  strong,  steady  tramp.  They  are  now  so 
near  that  the  opposing  ranks  can  look  into  each  other's  be- 
grimed and  heat-swollen  faces.  The  same  stern  resolve  char- 
acterizes the  countenances  of  each  dark  array.  To  distant 
spectators  the  two  clouds  of  vi^r  seem  almost  together  ;  the 
lightning  flashes  must  come  soon. 

The  American  firelocks  are  leveled,  not  evenly,  covering 
the  whole  advancing  column,  but  concentrating  on  every 
oflficer  visible.  They  are  but  a  few  yards  away.  Suddenly 
Moncton  steps  to  the  right,  waves  his  sword  aloft,  and 
shouts, 


33©  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  Charge  I" 

Wayne's  signal  is  equally  prompt.  A  volley  from  the 
whole  length  of  his  line  rings  out ;  then,  lowering  their 
empty  pieces,  his  men  rush  forward  to  meet  the  coming 
shock  with  answering  bayonet  thrust 

Moncton  fell,  and  also  almost  every  other  British  officer  ; 
but  his  heroic  column,  stunned  but  for  a  moment,  pressed 
on,  and  there  was  at  once  a  desperate  hand-to-hand  conflict 
over  the  prostrate  commander,  one  party  seeking  to  retain, 
and  the  other  to  obtain  his  body.  At  last  the  Continentals 
secured  the  lifeless  form  of  the  gallant  colonel,  and  carried 
it  to  the  rear. 

If  the  English  courage  was  steady  and  unflinching,  that 
of  the  Americans  was  reckless  and  enthusiastic.  Gradually 
they  pushed  back  the  struggling  and  almost  unofficered 
grenadiers,  until,  convinced  that  their  assault  had  failed, 
they  gave  way.  This  practically  decided  the  fate  of  the  day. 
The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  British  forces  soon  retired  to 
the  height  whereon  Washington  had  rallied  Lee's  disordered 
troops  in  the  morning.  Throughout  the  long  twilight, 
something  of  the  Sabbath' s  stillness  settled  down  on  a  region 
that  had,  throughout  the  day,  resounded  with  the  horrid  din 
of  war.  The  battle-field,  and  the  whole  line  of  Lee's  disas- 
trous retreat,  presented  one  strange  feature.  There  were 
wounded  and  mangled  bodies  in  abundance,  but  everywhere 
were  found  men  dead  or  helpless,  without  a  scratch  upon 
their  persons.  The  torrid  sun  had  smote  both  parties  as 
with  the  wrath  of  heaven. 

Washington  and  his  suite  lay  down  under  a  broad  oak, 
with  the  dead  all  around  them,  intending  to  renew  the  con- 
flict with  the  light  of  the  following  morning  ;  but,  while  the 
Americans,  from  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  were  sunk  in  ob- 
livion almost  as  deep  as  that  of  those  whom  the  morning  re- 
veille could  not  awaken,  Clinton  stole  away  with  his  baffied 


A  MASTER  MIND  AND    WILL.  33' 

army,  leaving  his  severely  wounded  to  the  mercy  of  his 
foes.  When,  at  daybreak,  the  advance  was  sounded,  the 
Americans  found  only  the  deserted  campaign  ground. 

It  was  a  drawn  battle  ;  but,  if  Lafayette  had  commanded 
the  advance  instead  of  Lee,  and  had  Morgan,  with  his  brave 
riflemen — who,  but  three  miles  distant,  chafed  all  day  with- 
out orders — attacked  the  enemy's  rear,  history  might  have 
given  a  different  record. 


332  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE    REVELATION, 

SAVILLE  was  naturally  brave,  but  no  man  ever  had  a 
greater  sense  of  gladness  than  he  at  having  passed  un- 
scathed through  the  manifold  perils  of  the  day.  Though 
wearied  to  the  point  of  exhaustion,  at  the  close  of  the  battle, 
he  sought  Molly,  as  soon  as  his  duties  permitted,  and  tried 
to  comfort  the  poor  creature.  He  found  her  crooning  and 
wailing  by  turns,  at  the  side  of  her  husband's  body. 

"  Ah  !  Misther  Saville,"  she  said,  "  it's  now  I  think  on 
ivery  oncivil  word  iver  I  spake  to  him.  If  I  could  only 
have  him  aloive  once  more,  I'd  be  swater  than  honey  all  the 
toime.  Faix,  sur,  Larry  was  a  kind,  dacent  man,  an'  I'll 
niver  git  his  loikes  agin." 

The  story  of  Molly's  action  on  the  death  of  her  husband 
had  spread  like  wildfire  through  the  army,  and  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning  General  Greene  presented  her,  all  begrimed 
with  powder  and  blood,  to  Washington,  who,  with  words 
of  praise  and  sympathy,  conferred  on  her  the  commission  of 
sergeant,  while  he  afterward  caused  her  name  to  be  placed 
upon  the  list  of  half-pay  officers  for  life. 

Saville  saw  that  Larry  had  a  soldier's  burial,  and  then 
gave  Molly  the  means  of  defraying  her  expenses  back  to  her 
home  in  the  Highlands,  to  which  she  soon  returned.  Im- 
mediately after  her  arrival  thither,  she  went  out  to  see  Vera, 
to  whom  she  related,  with  all  the  vividness  of  her  demon- 
strative style,  the  events  of  the  battle,  enlarging  upon  her 


THE  REVELATION.  333 

own  loss,  the  dangers  to  which  Saville  had  been  exposed, 
and  his  kindness  to  her. 

Her  tidings,  while  in  part  reassuring,  threw  Vera  into  an 
agony  of  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  her  lover.  Now,  in  his 
absence,  she  realized,  as  never  before,  how  necessary  he  ft^as 
to  her  very  existence  ;  and  again,  with  her  old  importunity, 
she  besought  Heaven  in  his  behalf,  though  not  with  her  old 
and  simple  faith  ;  and  she  watched  for  his  return  with  al- 
most sleepless  vigilance. 

In  the  meantime,  Saville,  finding  that  there  was  no  further 
prospect  of  fighting,  proceeded  on  his  journey  to  Philadel- 
phia, and,  after  attending  to  his  official  business,  purchased 
a  beautiful  ring  for  Vera.  Returning,  he  taxed  his  poor 
horse  heavily,  in  his  impatience  to  see  again  the  one  who 
grew  dearer  every  day.  The  dangers  he  had  passed  through, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  life  in  that  stormy  period,  made  him 
feel  that  he  could  delay  the  consummation  of  his  love  no 
longer,  and  he  half  resolved  to  put  his  hopes  to  the  test  on 
his  return.  By  rapid  riding,  he  gained  sufficient  time  to 
enable  him  to  spend  a  day  or  two  at  the  cabin,  and  still  re- 
port as  early  as  he  was  expected. 

When  he  met  Vera,  he  found  that  the  knowledge  of  what 
he  had  passed  through  had  preceeded  him.  Never  before 
had  her  reception  been  so  marked  by  a  clinging  tenderness, 
and  he  thought  exultantly,  "  She  cannot  give  me  up."  But 
she  soon  clouded  his  face  and  hopes  by  saying, 

'•  O  Theron  !  God  does  answer  prayer.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  entreated  Him  in  your  behalf  even  in  my  troub- 
led dreams,  as  well  as  in  every  waking  moment,  and  He  has 
spared  you  to  me." 

"Is  her  faith  still  so  unshaken  in  a  mere  name  ?"  hft 
sadly  asked  himself.      "  Will  it  ever  be  otherwise  ?" 

After  an  early  supper,  he  led  her  out  to  one  of  their  fa- 
vorite haunts  upon  the  hill-side,  and  gave  her  the  ring  he  had 


334  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

brought.  He  was  pleased  to  see  her  unbounded  delight 
and  gratitude,  and  he  said, 

"  When  you  no  longer  wish  my  love,  you  may  return  this 
ring  to  me." 

"  You  will  never  receive  it  again,"  she  answered,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  ;  ' '  for  if  I  were  dying,  Theron,  I  could 
not  give  it  back  on  that  condition." 

It  proved  a  little  too  large,  but  she  obviated  this  defect  by 
drawing  off  the  ring  given  by  her  mother,  and  then,  putting 
Saville's  gift  in  its  place,  she  kept  it  there  by  the  plain  gold 
band  which  she  had  worn  so  long. 

"  That  is  the  way  it  should  be,"  she  said  ;  "  for  I  have 
felt  from  the  first  that  I  had  mother's  approval  of  my  love." 
Then  she  added  musingly,  "  How  well  I  remember  he* 
words  when  she  gave  me  this  ring  I" 

"  What  were  they,  Vera  ?" 

She  blushed  deeply,  for  she  had  spoken  half  unconscious- 
ly, not  realizing  the  nature  of  the  explanation  that  must  fol- 
low. 

*'  Tell  me  her  words,"  Saville  again  gently  asked. 

"  They  remind  me  that  I  have,  in  part,  disobeyed  them, 
Theron  ;  but  I  trusted  you  so  completely,  and  all  has  hap- 
pened so  strangely  and  differently  from  what  any  one  could 
have  anticipated,  that  I  could  not  do  otherwise." 

His  curiosity  and  hope  were  now  both  aroused.  Was  the 
way  opening  for  explanations  that,  in  any  event,  must  soon 
come  ?    So  he  said, 

**  I  know  you  have  acted  right,  darling.  Were  your 
mother  living,  she  could  have  found  no  fault ;  but  what  did 
she  say  when  she  gave  the  ring  ?" 

**  I  cannot  hide  anything  from  you,  Theron,"  she  said, 
turning  away  her  face.  "  You  must  remembe  the  circum- 
stances. Mother  was  leaving  me  alone  and  friendless.  She 
feared  I  would  be  peculiarly  unshielded.     I  would  have  bees 


THE  REVELATION.  33$ 

but  for  you.  Think  of  v/hat  I  passed  through  in  your  long 
year  of  absence  !  think  of  the  condition  in  which  you  found 
me  1  O  Theron  !  how  much  I  owe  to  you.  Well,  mother 
evidently  feared  I  might  meet  with  some  one  not  so  honor- 
able as  you  are,  and  she  made  me  promise  that  1  would  not 
permit  caresses,  even  from  one  I  loved,  until  he  should  w^ed 
me  before  God's  minister  with  this  ring.  I  readily  gave  the 
promise,  for  I  did  not  then  know  what  love  was.  But  I 
could  not  keep  it.  When  you  raised  me  from  the  floor,  the 
night  father  spoke  those  dreadful  words,  I  knew  I  could 
trust  you.  I  turned  to  you  as  instinctively  as  that  climbing 
vine  to  yonder  oak.  I  could  not  help  it,  and  I  knew  that 
all  would  be  as  mother  wished  in  your  own  good  time." 

As  she  spoke  he  grew  very  pale,  and,  at  her  last  words, 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands  with  a  deep  groan.  It  seemed, 
for  the  moment,  as  if  the  dead  mother  stood  between  him 
and  her  child. 

"  Theron  1"   she  said  in  great  alarm. 

He  did  not  answer. 

' '  Theron,  are  you  ill  V ' 

"  Yes,  yes,  sick  at  heart ;  my  evil  destiny  will  conquer 
yet. 

"  O  Theron  !"  she  pleaded,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  ;  "  tell  me  your  trouble.  You  need  dread  no  evil 
that  I  can  avert." 

"  If  that  were  only  true,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her 
with  a  face  so  full  of  trouble  that  her  tears  started  in  sym- 
pathy. 

"  How  can  it  be  otherwise  than  true  .?"  she  asked,  begin- 
ning to  dread,  she  knew  not  what.  *'  Can  you  think  me 
so  ungrateful  that  I  will  not  make  any  sacrifice  for  you  .?" 

"  You  will  never  be  ungrateful,  Vera,  and  you  have  had, 
thus  far,  no  more  cause  for  gratitude  than  I  have  ;  but  I  fear 
you  cannot — mark,  I  do  not  say  will  not — I  fear  you  can- 


336  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

not  give  up  your  superstition — your  faith  in  what  I  am  sure 
is  all  delusion — for  my  sake  ;  and  yet  you  must,  or  else 
the  chance  for  a  happiness  greater  than  I  thought  possible 
passes  away  from  both. " 

"  Theron,  your  words  are  as  dark  as  night.  What  can 
you  mean  ?  Why  are  you  so  pale  ?"  cried  Vera  in  great 
distress. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now,'*  he  said,  after  a  moment, 
"  what  I  have  been  on  the  point  of  telling  you  before  ;  but 
I  hesitated,  as  much  for  your  sake  as  my  own.  I  could  no 
more  endure  the  thought  of  your  losing  this  happy  future 
than  of  losing  it  myself ;  and  I  hoped  that  in  time,  and 
under  greater  enlightenment  of  mind,  you  would  outgrow 
the  imaginary  obstacles  in  the  way.  I  too  have  broken  the 
letter  of  a  promise  that  I  made  you  at  your  mother's  grave. 
I  said,  in  effect,  that  1  would  not  try  to  lead  you  to  forget 
or  depart  from  her  teachings  ;  nor  would  I,  save  in  one  re- 
spect, for  her  influence  and  that  of  nature  have  made  you 
the  sweetest,  purest  woman  that  ever  breathed.  But  I  could 
not  be  loyal  to  you  and  to  your  happiness  and  still  keep  that 
hasty  pledge,  for  since  that  day  our  mutual  love  has  grown 
till  it  absorbs  us  both,  and  in  the  wretched  past  an  event 
occurred  which  would  render  the  consummation  of  our  love 
impossible,  did  I  leave  your  baseless  faith  undisturbed. 
While  it  comforted  you  after  your  mother's  death,  I  kept  the 
promise.  When,  ere  we  were  aware,  we  both  began  to  'ove 
each  other  in  such  a  way  that  the  terms  brother  and  sister 
no  longer  meant  the  truth  ;  when  your  father's  words  taught 
me  that  this  wilderness  must  continue  to  be  your  home,  and 
that  the  position  in  society,  which  I  that  day  had  resolved  you 
should  have,  became  impossible,  then  I  commenced  trj'ing 
to  teach  you  what  I  firmly  believe  myself.  I  could  sacrifice 
my  own  happiness  ;  I  had  decided  to  do  so,  and  your  quick 
intuition  read  my  decision  in  my  face.     And  yet  how  glad 


THE  REVELATION.  337 

I  was  that  I  saw,  as  I  believed,  a  way  in  which  we  both 
could  be  happy  by  becoming  one  for  life  !  I  then  tried  to 
undermine  your  delusion  ;  I  sought  to  do  it  gently,  that 
your  old  beliefs  might  pass  away^  clouds  from  the  sky." 

Just  then,  in  ominous  contradiction  of  his  words,  the  set- 
ting  sun  entered  a  dark  cloud,  and  the  gloom  fell  on  the 
feices  of  both. 

"  Vera,  before  I  saw  you  I  thought  I  had  spoiled  my  life  ; 
not  by  a  crime,  but  by  an  act  of  folly.  It  is  for  you  to  de- 
cide whether  my  life  is  to  be  blighted  by  its  consequences  ; 
for  your  sake— not  my  o\vn  ;  my  pure,  strong  love  needs  no 
priestly  sanction —for  your  sake,  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to 
say  it  I  cannot,  in  truth,  take  you  before  a  minister  and 
wed  you,  with  that  ring.  While  my  heart  is  free  to  love 
you,  in  the  eye  of  our  barbarous  laws  I  am  a  married  man." 
She  started  violently  and  became  deathly  pale,  but  she 
only  moaned, 

"  O  Theron,  Theron  !  I  should  have  known  this  before. " 
"  Hear  me,  hear  the  whole  wretched  story,  before  you 
condemn  meV'  he  cried  passionately.  "I  could  have 
brought  a  minister  hither,  and  it  might  have  been  years  be- 
fore you  learned  the  truth,  if  ever  ;  but  no  deceit  shall  ever 
sully  my  relations  to  you.  When  we  were  first  acquainted. 
I  did  not  tell  you  of  my  N\'ife,  because  I  never  spoke  of  her 
to  any  one,  not  even  to  my  mother.  I  was  seeking  to  for- 
get her  hateful  existence.  When  ycur  father's  words  and 
your  decision  to  remain  with  him  prevented  me  from  carry- 
ing out  my  self-sacrificing  plan,  then  the  thought  came  : 
Teach  her  the  truth,  show  her  how  valueless  are  the  forms 
and  ceremonies  which  are  based  on  falsehood." 

"  But  they  are  right  and  true  to  me,"  said  Vera  sobbing. 

"  They  cannot  continue  to  be  so,  dariing,  after  you  hare 

calmly  considered  the  proof  to  the  contrary  ;  and  when  you 

come  to  know  how  cruelly  I  am  placed,  how  utterly  I  am 


338  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

absolved  from  every  bond  save  that  which  is  purely  legal, 
you  will  have  pity  ;  you  will  see  that  I  have  a  right  to  seek 
your  love. "  And  he  told  her  the  whole  story  of  his  mar- 
riage, softening  no  part  that  was  to  his  own  disadvantage  ;  he 
spoke  with  intense  bitterness  of  his  wife's  recent  and  shame- 
ful marriage  at  the  very  time  when  he  owed  his  life  to  Vera's 
tireless  care  ;  "  and  this  marriage,"  he  said,  "  was  solem- 
nized with  all  the  forms  that  are  called  sacred." 

' '  And  now,  Vera, ' '  he  concluded,  ' '  how  could  I  have 
acted  otherwise .?  I  believe  that  this  life  is  all.  It  is  all,  " 
he  said  earnestly  ;  "  everj-thing  in  nature  proves  it.  We 
have  before  us  but  this  brief  life.  Alas  !  in  my  calling,  how 
uncertain  it  is  !  Since  our  short  day  must  pass  swiftly  at 
best,  shall  we  waste  our  waking  moments  over  delusions .? 
Shall  we  let  what  men  imagined  in  the  ignorant  past  stand 
in  the  way  of  real  and  practical  happiness  ?  Only  obstacles 
created  by  the  untaught  minds  of  the  superstitious  are  stand- 
ing in  our  way.  Shall  these  unsubstantial  spectres  frighten 
us  from  a  lifetime  of  deep  content  ?  In  a  little  while  we 
shall  cease  to  be,  and  the  chance  for  happiness  is  gone." 

But  Vera  drew  another  inference  than  that  which  he  in- 
tended, and  in  a  tone  that  pierced  his  heart  she  cried, 

*'  Then  where  is  mother.?" 

He  was  silent,  for  her  distress  was  so  great  that  it  seemed 
a  cruel  thing  to  say  that  all  that  remained  of  one  so  dear  was 
corrupting  in  a  distant  grave.  He  never  realized  before  how 
harsh  and  abrupt  an  end  his  creed  gave  to  human  life.  He 
tried  to  comfort  himself  with  the  thought  that  her  intense 
grief  would  gradually  pass  away,  and  that  realizing  that  she 
had  in  sad  truth  lost  her  mother,  she  would  cling  all  the 
more  closely  to  him  as  her  only  certain  possession. 

He  endeavored  to  soothe  her,  but  for  a  long  time  his 
efforts  seemed  utterly  vain.  At  last  she  grew  calm  enough 
to  falter. 


THE  REVELATI0I7.  339 

•'  I  am  in  the  dark,  Theron.  It  seems  as  if  the  mountain 
had  opened  at  my  feet.  I  dare  not  move  lest  I  fall  into  the 
gulf.  I  don' t  know  what' s  right,  I  don' t  know  what' s  true  ; 
my  mind  is  confused,  and  my  heart  aches  as  if  it  would 
break  O  mother  !  are  you  indeed  lost  to  me  forever  ?  If 
you  should  die,  Theron,  would  I  never  see  you  again  ? 
This  is  terrible,  terrible.  Please  take  me  home.  I  cannot 
think.  Perhaps  to  morrow  some  light  will  come.  I  am  in 
thick  darkness  now." 

He  could  only  comply  with  her  request,  and  hope  that 
time  and  thought  would  become  his  allies.  She  told  her 
father  that  she  was  not  well,  and  shut  herself  up  in  her  own 
little  room  ;  but  for  hours  her  mind  was  so  stunned  and  b©» 
wildered  that  it  could  not  act  coherently. 


)40  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

GROPING    HER   WAY. 

THE  night  to  Saville  was  one  of  sleepless  anxiety.  He 
felt  that  he  was  at  the  crisis  of  his  life.  Indeed,  if 
Vera  gave  him  back  his  ring,  saying  that,  under  the  circum- 
stances, she  could  not  accept  of  his  love,  what  would  life  be 
but  a  painful  burden  }  The  result  of  the  council  which  he 
knew  her  to  be  holding  with  her  own  heart,  and  the  mysteri- 
ous faith  which  he  had  found  so  hard  to  overcome,  might 
blast  the  hope  upon  which  he  built  all  his  future.  When 
she  appeared,  the  following  morning  he  scarcely  dared  lift 
his  eyes  to  her  pale  face,  lest  he  should  there  see  the  impress 
of  a  determination  which  he  might  not  be  able  to  overcome. 
But,  instead  of  a  strong  resolve,  he  saw  only  irresolution 
and  trouble,  her  mobile  features  revealing  the  deep  dis- 
quietude and  uncertainty  of  her  mind.  He  also  saw,  from 
her  greeting  and  wistful  eyes,  how  tenaciously  her  heart 
clung  to  him.  His  manner  was  gentleness  and  sympathy 
itself,  and  while  she  evidently  longed  to  receive  it  in  her  old, 
frank  manner,  as  her  right,  she  hesitated,  as  if  it  were  for- 
bidden and  fraught  with  danger  Her  restraint  did  not 
dishearten  him,  and  he  thought  exultantly, 

"  She  is  mine.  Her  love  wili  not  permit  her  to  give  me 
up  ;  her  old  beliefs  are  shaken.  Time,  gentleness,  and  the 
truth  shall  be  my  strong  allies,  and  to  them  she  will  surely 
yield." 

Her  father  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  that  anything 


GROPING  HER  WAY.  34 1 

\ras  amiss,  and  soon  after  the  morning  meal  was  over,  de- 
parted on  one  of  his  lonely  tramps  into  the  forest. 

Saville  led  Vera  again  to  their  old,  secluded  haunt  on  the 
hill-side,  hoping  that  ere  the  day  closed  he  might  satisfy  her 
mind  sufficiently  to  secure  an  acquiescence  in  his  plans, 
which,  if  at  first  hesitating  and  full  of  fear,  would  soon  be- 
come hearty  and  decided. 

"  I  learn  by  your  face  and  manner,  dearest."  he  said, 
"  that  you  will  not  send  me  away  a  despairing  and  reckless 
man, ' ' 

She  shivered  at  these  words,  for  they  opened  a  new  vista 
of  difficulty  and  danger. 

She  sa\,  down  on  a  mossy  rock  and  put  her  hands  to  her 
head,  saying,  in  pathetic,  childlike  simphcity, 

"  I  can't  seem  to  think  any  more.  I  can  only  feel  and 
suffer.  My  head  is  still  all  confused,  and  my  heart  is  like 
lead." 

"•Let  me  think  for  you,  Vera,"  he  said,  taking  one  of 
her  cold,  passive  hands.  "  Let  me  assure  you,  also,  that  I 
do  not  consider  my  cause  so  desperate  and  my  views  so  un- 
sound that  I  must  take  advantage  of  your  weakness,  and 
urge  you  to  a  hasty  decision.  I  wish  to  carry  your  reason 
and  all  pure,  womanly  feelings  with  me  at  every  step." 

"  O  Theron  !  would  to  God  I  knew  what  is  right,  what 
is  true  !  And  you  say  there  is  no  God.  I  am  bewildered 
and  lost." 

"  The  impulses  of  nature  are  right,  Vera.  The  unerring 
instincts  of  our  owii  hearts  are  true,  if  in  each  case  our  rea- 
son approves. ' ' 

*'  The  impulses  of  nature  are  right,"  she  repeated  slowly 
after  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  eagerly  ;  "^  and  you,  as  nature's  near- 
est and  most  perfect  child,  will  soon  see  that  I  am  correct 
What  we  feel — what  we  think  within  our  own  breasts — that 


34*  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

we  know.  What  we  see  and  experience  in  nature  without 
we  also  know  ;  but  what  else  are  we  sure  of  ?  I  am  not 
asking  you  lo  peril  your  happiness  on  what  some  old,  bigoted 
Jews  wrote  a  millennium  or  two  ago  ;  but  to  build  it  surely 
on  what  your  own  eyes,  your  own  heart  and  reason,  assure 
you  of  to-day.  I  am  here  at  your  side  ;  I  am  loyal  to  you 
to  my  heart's  core.  To  the  utmost  extent  of  my  ability  you 
can  depend  upon  me  ;  while  I  live " 

"  Ah  !  Theron,  there  is  the  terrible  part  of  your  belief — 
*  While  you  live. '  Do  you  not  see  that  you  are  standing 
on  a  little  point,  with  a  black,  raylesB  gulf  all  around  you  ? 
What  if  you  should  fall  ?  What  if  you  should  die  ?  Where 
could  I  find  you  ?" 

"  Dismiss  these  morbid  fancies,  dearest.  There  is  no 
need  of  supposing  that  I  shall  fall  or  die.  I  have  the  pre- 
sentiment of  a  long  and  happy  life  with  you,  if  I  can  only 
dissipate  the  clouds  of  superstition  from  your  mind,  and, 
after  life  is  over,  we  shall  sleep  and  not  be  conscious  of  our 
loss.  But  now,  long  before  that  deep  oblivion  comes,  to 
see  a  bliss  beyond  that  of  your  fancied  heaven,  almost  within 
our  grasp,  and  yet  to  be  denied — this  is  more  than  human 
fortitude  can  endure.  Let  me  teach  you  the  truth  from  your 
own  experience,  and  pardon  the  seeming  egotism  of  my 
argument,  for  it  is  all  for  your  sake  as  truly  as  my  own. 
The  evening  you  buried  your  mother  you  said  I  saved  your 
heart  from  breaking.  The  voice  of  living  sympathy  brought 
reliet  Your  mother  did  not  help  you,  simply  because  she 
could  not.  She  was  sleeping,  and  even  the  voice  of  her 
child  could  not  awaken  her.  If  you  will  calmly  think  of  it, 
she  has  been  lost  to  you  from  the  moment  she  breathed  her 
last,  and  all  that  she  has  been  to  you  since  has  been  due  to 
your  vivid  memory  and  strong  imagination.  At  no  time 
can  you  prove  her  presence  or  show  that  she  gave  you  aiyr 
practical  help." 


GROPThTG  HER   WAY,  343 

**  O  Theron  I  I  never  felt  so  orphaned  before,"  she 
sobbed, 

"  I  know  my  words  hurt  you  cruelly,  darling,  but  they 
are  necessary  to  your  final  health  and  happiness.  When 
even  your  light  touch  bound  up  my  wound,  it  caused  me 
agony  for  the  moment  ;  but  I  am  here  to-day  because  of  that 
sufiering.  Go  back  with  me  to  the  time  when  I  found  you 
near  your  old  desolated  home.  You  were  embracing  the 
unresponsive  mound  beneath  which  your  mother  was  sleep- 
ing, and  the  cold,  unanswering  silence  was  breaking  your 
heart.  You  had  become  timidity  itself,  feeling  justly  that 
you  had  no  protector.  As  soon  as  I  appeared,  you  had  a 
strong  arm  to  lean  upon.  Has  not  your  life  improved  since 
that  day .?  Has  it  not  grown  fuller,  more  complete  and  sa^ 
isfying  ?' ' 

"  I  should  have  been  dead  but  for  your  coming,  Theron." 

"  That  which  is  worse  than  death  might  have  happened," 
he  said  shudderingly.  "  Think  of  the  perils  to  which  you 
were  exposed  before  I  came.  I  have  been  to  the  point  o£ 
Butter  Hill,  where  you  escaped  a  fate  too  frightful  to  be 
imagined.  As  I  pictured  you  climbing  that  awful  precipice, 
I  trembled  and  grew  faint.     Who  helped  you  then  ?" 

'*  It  seemed  as  if  God  helped  me," 

*'  But  was  there  in  fact  any  practical  help  save  that  which 
these  little  hands  and  feet  gave,  bruised  and  bleeding  as  they 
must  have  been  ?  Kindly  nature  held  out  a  shrub  here  and 
there,  and  the  granite  rock,  more  merciful  than  your  imag' 
ined  deity,  gave  you  a  few  crevices  on  which  to  step  for  a 
perilous  moment.  Your  own  weary  feet  carried  you  on 
that  lonely,  desperate  journey  home,  and  when  your  natural 
and  human  strength  gave  out,  you  fell.  No  one  helped 
you,  and,  were  it  not  for  the  accident  of  old  Gula  stumbling 
against  your  unconscious  form,  you  would  have  perished 
within  a  few  yards  of  your  own  door.     And  if,  a  little  later, 


344  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

the  ruffians  had  found  you  in  the  cabin,  who  would  have 
saved  you  ?  Who  has  saved  thousands,  equally  helpless, 
from  every  outrage  that  ineamate  fiends  could  perpetrate  ? 
Poor,  inoffensive  Gula  was  rescued  by  a  human  hand. 
My  life  was  saved  by  these  dear  hands.  Tell  me  when  and 
^here  any  real  and  practical  blessing  came  to  our  lives  that 
was  not  brought  by  human  hands,  and  prompted  by  human 
love. 

She  turned  and  clung  to  him  almost  in  terror,  as  she  said, 

"  Theron,  is  this  arm,  which  death  may  at  any  moment 
paralyze,  my  only  defense  ?" 

' '  What  have  been  the  facts,  darling  ?  Who  has  helped 
you  ?  Who  rescued  me  when  I  should  have  soon  died 
from  my  wound,  as  that  thing  which  the  law  calls  my  wife 
devoutly  wished  ?" 

' '  There  seems  reason  in  what  you  say, ' '  she  said  ;  ' '  and 
yet  it  is  so  contrary  to  all  that  I  ever  hoped  or  believed  that 
I  cannot  grasp  it, ' '  and  her  brow  contracted  for  a  few  mo- 
ments in  deep  thought. 

He  did  not  interrupt  her,  wishing  to  give  his  words  time 
to  make  their  impression. 

At  last  she  said  slowly,  "  I  must  try  to  feel  my  way  out 
of  this  darkness,  and  come  to  some  clear  sense  of  what  your 
words  mean  and  involve.  I  shall  have  to  trust  you,  Theron. 
You  can  easily  deceive  such  an  ignorant  child  as  I  am, 
but  I  know  you  will  not.  I  have  always  lived  in  these 
mountains,  and  mother  and  the  Bible  have  been  my  only 
teachers. ' ' 

' '  You  forget  nature.  Vera.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that 
she  has  taught  you  more  than  all.  It  is  her  influence  that 
makes  you  so  docile  and  receptive.  Your  mind  opens  to 
the  truth,  like  the  flower  buds  to  the  rain  and  dew,  when- 
ever they  fall. 

"  Alas  !  the  resemblance  is  too  true.     You   might  put 


GROPING  HER    WAY.  345 

within  the  petals  of  the  silly  flowers  that  which  would  poison 
them,  and  they  would  know  no  better  at  first." 

"  And  can  you  think  I  would  try  to  poison  your  mind, 
Vera?" 

"  Not  willingly  and  knowingly,  Theron  ;  and  yet  I 
tremble  at  the  thoughts  you  suggest,  and  fear  they  involve 
more  to  me  than  you  realize.  Besides,  if  you  are  right,  so 
many  must  be  mistaken  ;  at  least  I  think  so.  I  am  so  ig- 
norant, and  my  life  has  been  so  remote  from  the  world,  thai 
I  distrust  myself  on  every  side.  You  say  that  the  great  and 
wise  believe  as  you  do  ?' ' 

Here  Saville  launched  out  with  enthusiasm  and  sincerity. 
"  The  learned  men  of  France,"  he  said,  "  are  the  greal 
thinkers  of  the  world.  They  are  rapidly  emancipating  their 
own  nation,  and  their  ideas  are  finding  an  increasing  num- 
ber of  adherents  in  this  country  and  England,  especially 
among  the  educated  classes.  Only  those  who  will  not  or 
cannot  think  for  themselves  hold  to  the  old  superstitions ; 
and  in  a  generation  or  two  more,  all  our  barbarous  laws  will 
have  to  be  remodeled  in  accordance  with  truth  and  reason. 
Men  will  evolve  their  laws  from  their  own  nature  and  needs, 
and  hence  they  will  cease  to  be  mere  arbitrary  and  irrational 
restraints.  By  following  the  impulses  and  teachings  of  na- 
ture, we  may  hasten  forward  that  golden  age.  It  was  one  of 
my  dearest  hopes  that  I  might,  in  this  new  land,  contribute 
much  toward  reorganizing  society,  and  breaking  the  chains 
under  which  so  many  are  groaning.  Perhaps  I  have  been 
made  to  feel  how  galling  and  unnatural  they  are  that  I  might 
be  fitted  for  the  task." 

' '  Who  has  arranged  it  so  that  you  might  be  fitted  for  this 
task  ?' '  asked  Vera  innocently. 

"  Well,  destiny,  nature,  or  perhaps  I  should  more  cor- 
rectly say,  it  is  a  happy  chance,"  answered  Saville,  some- 
what confused. 


3^6  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"It's  all  so  strange  and  vague  to  me,"  said  Vera  de- 
spondently. "These  questions  are  too  deep  forme.  I 
cannot  follow  you.  There  seems  nothing  sure  existing  but 
yourself,  and  in  a  few  hours  you  will  be  gone,  and  then 
comes  the  awful  uncertainty  whether  you  will  ever  return." 
After  a  few  moments  she  added,  with  an  averted  face  and 
burning  blush,  "  As  things  are  now,  Theron,  we  cannot  be 
truly  married." 

"  Yes,  Vera,  it  will  be  my  only  true  marriage.  Was  that 
a  true  marriage  which  joined  me  temporarily  to  a  woman 
whom  I  loathe  and  hate,  though  solemnized  by  every  priestly 
and  superstitious  form  ?  Nature  joins  our  hands,  hearts, 
and  lives,  and  makes  us  one  in  reality." 

"Would  it  be  true  marriage  to  your  mother  ?"  asked 
Vera,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  My  mother  holds  to  the  old  views,"  said  Saville  hesi- 
tatingly. "  While  we  love  each  other  dearly,  we  differ  rad- 
ically on  many  points.  She  does  not  approve  of  this  war 
for  liberty." 

"  It  would  not  seem  a  true  marriage  to  my  mother,  if  she 
were  living,  Theron,"  continued  Vera  in  the  same  low, 
troubled  voice. 

"  Probably  not  Vera.  With  her  prejudices  and  beliefs,  the 
mere  formal  rite,  which  is  impossible,  would  be  essential. 
But  your  mother  is  dead,  and  I  am  here." 

"  The  Bible  would  be  against  it,  Theron." 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be.  But,  as  the  Bible  is  a  mere  ex- 
pression of  human  opinion,  we  have  a  better  right  to  our 
opinions  in  this  more  enlightened  age." 

"  Would  many  people,  in  our  own  age,  regard  it  as  true 
marriage  ?" 

"  Not  yet,  I  fear,"  he  said  sadly  ;  "but  they  will  in  time. 
But  what  is  the  world  to  us  ?  I  am  more  than  willing  to 
share  your  seclusion  among  these  beautiful  mountains.     As 


GROPING  HER    WAY.  347 

long  as  we  know  that  we  are  doing  right,  what  need  we  care 
what  the  world  thinks  ?" 

* '  If  there  is  no  God  to  whom  we  are  responsible, ' '  she 
said  in  sudden  recklessness,  "  and  if  in  a  few  days  we  shall 
cease  to  be,  why  need  we  care  what  is  right  ?  It  seems  to 
me  the  words  right  and  wrong  have  no  meaning.  The  only 
question  is.  What  do  we  want  to  do  ?  We  must  hastily 
snatch  at  whatever  is  within  our  reach,  and  make  the  most 
of  it  while  we  can." 

"  Now,  Vera,  darling,  those  words  are  not  like  your  old 
self,"  he  replied,  with  a  slight  accent  of  reproach.  "  You 
have  only  to  follow  the  instincts  of  your  pure,  womanly 
nature  to  do  what  is  right  and  shun  what  is  wrong." 

"  But  your  words  are  sweeping  away  all  on  which  I  based 
my  motives  and  rules  of  action,"  she  continued,  in  the 
Bame  desperate  tone.  ' '  The  Heavenly  Father  that  I  tried 
to  please,  as  a  dutiful  child,  is  but  a  mere  name.  The 
mother,  whose  gentle  teaching  echoed  His  will,  has  ceased  to 
exist.  I  am  to  live  a  few  uncertain  days,  and  then  also  be- 
come nothing.  In  accordance  with  all  I  have  been  taught 
to  believe  true,  I  have  no  right  to  sit  here  listening  to  your 
love.  Neither  your  mother  nor  mine  would  believe  it  right, 
and,  strange  to  say,  I  have  a  guilty  fear  in  my  own  heart 
while  doing  so.  I  don't  understand  it  And  yet,  if  yoa 
are  not  mistaken  in  what  you  have  told  me,  why  need  I 
care  ?     You  are  here.     I  am  sure  of  to-day.     That  is  all." 

He  was  appalled  at  the  reckless  and  unnatural  expression 
of  her  face.  Instead  of  the  pure,  gentle  light  which  usually 
beamed  from  her  deep  blue  eyes,  it  almost  seemed  as  if  a 
lurid  flame  were  burning  back  of  them.  He  asked  himself, 
in  wonder,  Is  this  Vera .''  But  he  only  said,  gently  and 
soothingly, 

"The  truth  involves  such  great  and  radical  changes  in 
jrour  belief  that  you  are  confused,  daru..^      You  will  see 


348  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

everything  calmly  in  its  proper  light  by-and-by  ;  and,  that 
you  may,  I  will  give  you  an  abundance  of  time. " 

"  •  Time  !'  "  she  repeated,  with  a  bitter  laugh  ;  "  that 
is  the  only  thing  in  which  we  need  to  practice  economy.  In 
a  few  hours  you  will  mount  your  horse  and  vanish  like  my 
other  delusions.     What  is  sure,  save  this  fleeting  moment  ?" 

Then,  in  strong  revulsion  of  feeling,  she  commenced 
weeping  bitterly. 

"  There  is  something  wrong  in  all  this,  Theron,"  she  sob- 
bed. "  I  am  frightened.  I  tremble  at  myself,  and  am  sore 
perplexed.  It  seems  as  if  I  were  falling  down  some  black 
chasm,  and  even  your  hand  could  not  reach  me.  The  im- 
pulses of  nature,  as  you  call  them,  and  conscience  are  all  at 
war.  I  don't  understand  myself  at  all.  I  only  know  that 
something  is  wrong,  and  that  there  must  be  a  dreadful  mis- 
take somewhere.     Have  pity  on  me  and  take  me  home." 

The  man  of  theories  was  almost  as  greatly  perplexed  as 
herself,  but  he  took  comfort  in  the  thought  that  she  was  un- 
strung by  her  strong  emotions  ;  that  her  trust  in  her  old 
beliefs  had  given  way  so  suddenly  that  she  was  too  bewil- 
dered to  see  the  solid  ground  where  he  stood.  With  sooth- 
ing, gentle  words  he  led  her  to  the  cabin. 

"  I  will  go  now,"  he  said  ;  "  but  shall  return  in  a  day 
or  two,  and  then  you  will  be  able  to  see  everything  clearer, 
and  you  will  be  your  old  happy  self." 

*•  Theron,  do  not  go,"  she  said,  with  such  sudden  and 
passionate  earnestness  that  he  was  surprised.  Then  she 
added,  almost  instantly,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepr.st  sadness, 
"Yes,  you  must  go,  you  must  go.  Good-by/'  and  sh9 
hastened  to  the  seclusion  of  her  own  room. 

He  went  away  feeling  that  all  was  still  in  doubt 


STUONG   TEMPTATION,  349 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

STRONG    TEMPTATION. 

SEVERAL  days  passed  before  Saville's  duties  permitted 
him  to  be  absent  again.  To  him  they  were  desperately 
long,  but  to  Vera  they  were  interminable.  And  yet  she  al- 
most dreaded  to  see  him,  for  she  could  not  solve  the  ques- 
tions of  right  and  duty.  Her  heart  sided  with  him  and  his 
arguments  with  pleadings  so  strong  that  it  seemed  they 
would  not  be  denied.  The  doubts  he  had  raised  in  her 
mind  grew  stronger  as  she  dwelt  upon  them. 

"  If  this  life  is  all,"  she  sighed  again  and  again,  "  how 
unspeakably  dreadful  to  lose  this  one  chance  of  happiness  I 
But,  even  if  I  yield,  will  I  be  happy?"  she  asked  herself  in 
prophetic  dread.  "  I  have  such  a  strange,  guilty  fear  in 
giving  up  all  my  old  belief,  and  doing  what  mother  forbade. 
If  I  could  only  become  his  wife,  as  mother  said,  I  should  be 
the  happiest,  proudest  woman  that  ever  lived.  But  now, 
although  he  is  so  true,  I  dare  not  trust  him.  I  dare  not 
trust  myself.  I  feel  that  it  is  a  leap  into  the  dark.  Oh  I 
that  I  knew  what  was  right ;  oh  !  that  I  knew  what  was  true  I 

"And  yet  I  cannot  give  him  up.  It  would  now  be  a 
million-fold  worse  than  death.  Can  there  be  anything  more 
dreadful  in  all  the  future  even  if  the  Bible  is  true  ?  How 
much  easier  it  would  be  to  give  him  every  drop  of  my  heart's 
blood  than  to  give  him  back  this  ring  !  How  strange  it 
feels  upon  my  finger  !  It  burns  like  a  circlet  of  fire.  It 
can't  be  right.     Oh  I  is  it  very  wrong?" 


35©  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

Thus,  by  turns,  doubt,  passion,  fear,  and  love  surged  over 
her  mind  till  she  thought  she  would  lose  her  reason. 

Her  old  playmates,  the  flowers,  began  to  look  at  her  re- 
proachfully, the  notes  of  the  birds  to  grow  strangely  plain- 
tive, and  the  breathings  of  the  winds  among  the  trees  were 
long  drawn  sighs,  responsive  to  her  own. 

"  It  is  just  as  mother  said  it  would  be,"  she  moaned; 
"  nature  frowns  upon  me.  It  must  be  wrong.  But  if  I 
am  mistaken,  if  she  were  mistaken,  if  this  is  only  a  sick 
fancy  of  my  disquieted  mind — oh  I  that  I  knew  what  was 
true  and  right. ' ' 

One  lovely  afternoon,  weary  and  torn  by  conflicting  emo- 
tions, she  went  out  to  the  old  haunt  on  the  hill-side.  In 
her  distress  she  threw  herself  upon  the  ground,  and  buried 
her  burning  face  in  the  cool  grass.  How  long,  in  her  deep 
preoccupation,  she  lay  there,  she  did  not  know,  but  at  last 
a  kind  voice  said, 

"Vera." 

**  O  Theron  !  have  you  come  once  more  ?" 

"  Yes,  darling  ;  I  could  not  come  before." 

Then  she  became  silent,  and  seemed  under  the  most  pain- 
ful restraint.  She  was  so  unlike  her  former  self  that  he 
sighed  deeply. 

She  burst  into  tears  as  she  said,  "  That  is  the  way  it  is 
all  ending  ;  sighs,  sighs,  only  sighs." 

"  Must  it  all  end  in  sighs  ?"   he  asked  very  sadly. 

"  I  fear  that  it  will  anyway.  Theron,  I  get  no  light.  I 
cannot  give  you  up,  and  yet  my  heart  forebodes  evil  till  I 
tremble  with  dread." 

"  You  are  not  well,  Vera.  Your  hands  are  feverish,  and 
your  pulse  rapid  and  uneven." 

"  It  but  faintly  echoes  the  unrest  of  my  heart.  I  have 
thought  and  thought  till  my  head  swam  in  a  dizzy  whirl. 
My  love  has  been  your  ever-present  and  eloquent  advocate. 


STRONG   TEMPTATION.  35 1 

At  times,  I  have  been  on  the  point  of  recklessly  shutting  my 
eyes,  and  of  letting  you  lead  me  whither  you  would." 

"  My  only  wish,  darling,  is  to  lead  you  to  deep  content 
and  lasting  peace. " 

"  How  mockingly  impossible  that  happy  condition  seems  1 
O  Theron  I  I  don't  understand  myself  at  all.  It  seema 
but  the  other  day,  and  I  was  a  simple  child  ;  now  I  am  I 
know  not  what.  My  own  feelings  remind  me  of  Shak- 
speare's  tragedies,  which  I  never  half  understood  before. 
Even  in  my  dreams  I  am  walking  on  the  crumbling  Qdt%Q  of 
an  abyss.  Even  if  I  yield,  something  tells  me  that  I  shall 
lose  you.  It  can't  be  right,  Theron,  it  can't  be  right, 
though  your  words  and  your  unspeakable  kindne^  to  me 
make  it  seem  so.  I  dare  not  think  of  your  mother,  much 
less  of  my  own.  Did  my  poor,  dying  mother  have  a  pro- 
phetic insight  into  the  future  when  she  charged  me,  '  Be  true 
to  your  God  and  your  faith  ;  be  true  to  my  poor  teaching 
and  your  own  pure,  womanly  nature.  LsJt  the  Bible  guida 
you  in  all  things,  and  then  you  will  always  have  peace  in 
your  heart,  and  find  sympathy  in  nature  without  But  rest 
assured,  however  wise  and  greatly  to  your  advantage  anything 
may  seem,  if  your  Bible  is  against  it,  do  not  hesitate  ;  turn 
away,  for  if  will  not  end  well.  Keep  thy  heart  with  all  dili- 
gence. When  it  troubles  you,  and  your  old  playmates,  the 
innocent  flowers,  look  at  you  reproachfully,  something  will 
be  wrong'  ?  Theron,  they  do  look  at  me  reproachfully,  and 
my  heart  is  full  of  strange  disquietude  and  fear.  Mother 
said,  '  Keep  true,  and  our  separation  will  be  brief.'  My 
feelings  of  late  seem  to  rob  me  of  the  right  of  even  remem- 
bering her.  Half-forgotten  sentences  from  her  burned  Bible 
come  into  my  mind  like  lightning  flashes.  One  of  these  is 
ever  ringing  in  my  ears.  I  don't  remember  its  connection, 
but  the  words  are  dreadful,  and  they  too  often  express  my 
condition.  They  are,  *  A  fearful  looking  ioi  of  judg 
Roe— Vni  -  P 


352  NEAR    TO  NA  TURE'S  HEART. 

ment.'  Then  again  I  almost  see  the  Saviour  looking  at  me 
so  reproachfully — just  as  He  must  have  looked  on  Peter 
when  he  denied  his  Lord.  And  Shakspeare,  too,  which 
you  say  is  one  of  the  gieatest  books  of  the  world,  seems  to 
echo  the  Bible.  The  writer  must  have  understood  the  hu- 
man heart,  for  he  describes  mine.  He  gives  the  experience 
of  those  who  did  wrong,  and  he  portrays  myself.  But  when 
I  think  of  you  and  your  devoted  loyalty  to  me  when  any  one 
else  would  have  cast  me  off,  I  have  not  the  heart  to  deny 
you  anything.  As  for  myself,  I  would  rather  die  a  thousand 
deaths  than  be  separated  from  you.  If  I  were  only  sure 
what  was  right — that  is  the  only  ground  on  which  I  can  end 
this  cruel  conflict. " 

"  And  that  is  the  only  ground  on  which  I  wish  you  to 
end  it, ' '   he  said  gently  and  soothingly,  taking  her  hand. 

But  he  was  surprised  at  the  intensity  and  far-reaching 
character  of  her  thoughts  and  emotions.  Were  it  not  for  the 
external  shadows  which  had  fallen  so  darkly  on  her  life,  she 
had  seemed  to  him  almost  an  emanation  of  the  sunshine,  a 
being  akin  to  her  companions,  the  flowers,  and  with  no  ca- 
pabilities for  the  dark,  passionate  thoughts  which  were  surg- 
ing up  in  her  mind.  Was  nature  failing  him  who  had  been 
her  disciple  and  votary  .?  Her  impulses  in  this,  her  child, 
were  far  from  being  satisfactory.  In  his  strong  delusion  he 
then  could  not  understand  that  it  was  Vera's  very  nearness 
to  nature' s  heart  that  caused  the  deep  unrest  and  dread  as 
he  sought  to  lead  her  into  violation  of  the  subtle  laws 
which  the  Divine  Author  had  caused  to  permeate  all  His 
work. 

The  eating  of  the  forbidden  fruit  appeared  a  simple,  harm- 
less act  in  the  mellow  light  of  Eden  ;  but  it  broke  the  safe, 
harmonious  control  of  God's  will,  and  there  has  been  jar- 
ring, deadly  discord,  ever  since. 

But,  assured  in  his  own  theories,  he  reasoned  with  Vera 


"May  God  have  Pity  on  us  both." 

Near  to  Nature.  P^S^  354- 


STRONG   TEMPTATION.  353 

long  and  earnestly.     He  showed  her  how  the  mastery  of  a 

strong  superstition  is  slow  to  yield  to  the  light  of  truth.  Ha 
explained  how  hard  and  gradual  was  the  death  of  ancient 
faiths,  which  now  have  no  credence  whatever.  He  tried  to 
make  it  clear  that  the  transition  from  the  habitual  thought 
and  belief  of  years  must  be  stormy  and  full  of  misgivings. 

She  listened  intently,  honestly  seeking  light ;  but  when 
he  was  through,  she  shook  her  head  sadly,  saying, 

"  What  you  say  seems  true.  I  cannot  answer  you,  1  can- 
not refute  your  argument ;  like  a  weak  woman,  I  can  only 
feel.  You  men  think  with  your  heads,  Theron  ;  but  I 
imagine  that  women  think  with  their  hearts. " 

"  Well,  Vera,  both  your  head  and  heart  will  be  satisfied 
in  time.  I  feel  sure  that  when  I  come  again  the  clouds 
and  mists  will  have  disappeared.  And  it  may  be  quite  a 
long  time  before  you  see  me,  for  this  is  a  sort  of  farewell 
visit  The  French  fleet  has  arrived  upon  our  coast,  and 
oflScers  are  needed  who  are  thoroughly  conversant  with  both 
the  French  and  English  languages.  I  have  been  assigned 
to  duty  on  General  Sullivan's  staff,  and  start  for  the  East  to- 
morrow. ' ' 

Vera  became  very  pale,  and  murmured,  "  Is  God,  seeing 
my  weakness,  sending  you  away,  and  into  new  and  greater 
dangers  ?  This  is  the  worst  of  it  all,  for,  however  I  decide, 
you  must  suffer." 

"  No,  Vera,  only  2t.syou  send  me  away  shall  I  suffer,  and 
you  only  have  the  power  to  blight  my  life.  Without  your 
love  it  would  be  an  unendurable  burden." 

*'  You  will  never  cease  to  have  my  love  ;  but,  Theron,  I 
have  the  dreadful  presentiment  that  if  1  do  wrong,  I  shall 
bring  evil  upon  you,  and  that  would  be  worse  than  anything 
that  could  happen  to  me." 

"  Well,  darling,  only  time  can  cure  you  of  these  strange, 
wild  ^cies.     I  will  fortify  my  heart  with  hope  that  when  I 


354  b/dAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

corae  again,  you  will  give  me  your  old  joyous  and  confident 
welcome." 

"  Must  you  go  ?"  she  asked  passionately,  a  reckless  light 
coming  into  her  eyes. 

"  Yes." 

She  swayed  for  a  moment  like  a  reed  shaken  by  the  wind. 
She  seemed  about  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms,  but  turned 
away  instead,  and  cowering  to  the  earth,  murmured, 

*'  May  God  have  pity  on  us  both." 

He  lifted  her  up  with  a  manner  that  was  at  once  gentle, 
strong,  and  protecting,  and,  placing  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
led  her  home. 

*'  Good-by,  Vera,"  he  said,  pressing  her  hand  only  to 
his  lips,  in  a  way  that  was  full  of  respect  as  well  as  of  ten- 
derness ;  "  your  healthful  mind  will  soon  recover,  and  be 
dear  and  strong  when  I  come  again." 

She  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  but  he  never  forgot  the 
SJcpressioQ  of  her  face. 


A  STRANGER'S  COUNSEL,  355 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 
A  stranger's  counsel. 

FOR  several  days  thereafter.  Vera' s  distress  was  so  great 
that  even  the  self-absorbed  inmates  of  the  cabin 
noticed  it ;  but  she  satisfied  them  fully  by  saying  that  Mr. 
Saville  had  been  ordered  away,  and  it  might  be  a  long  time 
before  he  returned. 

But  her  spiritual  conflict  went  on  with  increasing  bitter- 
ness, until  she  grew  almost  desperate,  and  feeling  that  she 
must  decide  the  question  one  way  or  the  other,  the  thought 
occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  at  her  mother's  grave  duty  and 
truth  might  become  clearer.  Something  might  there  make 
it  known  whether  she  was  restrained,  as  Saville  said,  by  the 
strong  though  shattered  powers  of  an  old  superstition,  or  by 
the  voices  of  truth  and  nature  within  her  heart  So,  one 
beautiful  afternoon  about  the  middle  of  July,  she  started,  as 
some  remorseful  pilgrim  might  seek  a  shrine  famous  for  its 
sacred  powers. 

But  when  she  drew  near  the  familiar  place,  unwonted 
sounds  filled  her  with  apprehension,  and  soon  from  a  shel- 
tered height  she  saw  that  the  rocky  hill  back  of  the  site  of 
the  old  cabin  was  thronged  with  soldiers,  under  whose  la- 
bors were  rising  the  walls  of  a  work  afterward  known  as  Fort 
Putnam.  She  could  not  descend  into  the  valley  without 
taking  the  risk  of  being  seen  by  many  eyes,  and  meeting 
those  from  whom  she  shrank  with  fearful  memories.  She 
bastiljr  retraced  her  steps,  weeping  as  she  went,  and  ieeling 


356  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

more  than  ever  before  that  Saville's  words  were  true — that 
she  had  indeed  lost  her  mother,  and  that  not  even  her  grave 
would  be  left. 

' '  Theron  is  right ;  there  is  no  hope,  no  protection  for  me 
but  in  him,"  she  had  almost  concluded,  when  the  sound 
of  a  horse's  feet  caused  her  to  spring  from  the  path  and  con- 
ceal herself  in  a  thicket. 

A  tall,  grave-looking  officer  soon  appeared  riding  leisure- 
ly toward  her.  His  face  was  so  open  and  kindly  in  its  ex- 
pression, that  Vera  felt  that  she  would  have  had  no  cause  to 
fear  him,  even  if  he  had  discovered  her. 

A  few  steps  beyond  where  she  was  hiding,  a  little  stream 
fell  into  a  rocky  basin,  sparkled  a  moment  in  the  sunlight, 
and  then  stole  on  into  the  deep  shade  of  the  forest. 

The  stranger  seemed  pleased  with  the  spot,  for  he  reined 
up  his  horse,  and,  removing  his  hat,  wiped  his  brow,  and 
then  looked  around  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  alone. 
Having  dismounted,  he  drew  a  small  silver  cup  from  his 
pocket  and  drank  from  the  rill.  He  then  suffered  his  eager 
horse  to  dip  his  nose  deeply  into  the  water  of  the  little 
pool. 

"  Ha  !  Lion,  that  tastes  good  to  us  both,  doesn't  it?" 
he  said,  stroking  the  mane  of  the  beautiful  animal.  Then 
he  slipped  off  the  bridle,  and  permitted  the  horse  to  crop 
the  grass  that  grew  green  and  rank  in  the  cool,  moist  spot. 

Laying  his  hat  on  a  rock  near,  the  stranger  sat  down  and 
took  a  small  book  from  his  pocket,  which  he  quietly  read 
for  some  little  time,  often  moving  his  lips,  and  shaking  his 
head  with  a  slow,  gentle  emphasis,  as  if  the  words  before 
him  were  full  of  deep,  grave  import. 

Vera's  tears  dried  upon  her -face  as  she  watched  him  with 
increasing  interest.  "  I  wonder  what  he  is  reading,"  she 
thought.  "It  must  be  a  good  book,  for  it  gives  such  a 
sweet,  noble  expression  to  his  face,     I  could  trust  that  man. 


A   STRANGER'S  COUNSEL.  ZS1 

Oh  !  that  I  dared  ask  counsel  of  him.  Perhaps  God  has 
given  me  the  chance.  Be  still,  poor,  foolish  heart,"  she 
whispered,  putting  her  hand  to  her  side  in  her  old,  charac- 
teristic  way.      "  Why  am  I  so  timid  .?" 

But  when,  to  her  great  surprise,  the  stranger  laid  the  book 
down,  and,  kneeling  beside  it,  commenced  praying  audibly 
to  God,  her  hesitation  vanished.  Crossing  the  intervening 
space  with  silent  tread,  she  knelt  near,  and  her  tears  fell  fast 
as  his  voice  grew  earnest  and  importunate.  The  burden 
upon  his  heart  appeared  to  be  his  country's  weal  ;  and  in 
his  earnest  desire  that  all  the  blessings  of  liberty  and  good 
government  might  be  secured,  he  quite  forgot  himself.  As 
she  listened  to  his  strong  pleadings,  her  own  wavering  faith 
began  to  revive,  and  she  felt  that  a  great  living  Presence  was 
near  to  them  both. 

When  the  stranger  rose,  and  saw  the  kneeling  form  of 
Vera,  his  surprise  was  very  great,  and  he  was  almost  resent- 
ful, at  first,  that  his  privacy  had  been  intruded  upon  ;  but  a 
second's  scrutiny  of  the  bowed  head  and  tearful  face  quite 
disarmed  him, 

''What  do  you  wish,  my  child?"  he  asked,  a  little 
coldly,  however. 

"  Pardon  me,"  faltered  Vera,  rising,  and  putting  her 
hand  to  her  side.  "  I — will  you  please  forgive  a  poor  child 
that  would  fain  learn  to  pray  also  .''" 

"Surely  I  will,"  said  the  stranger  kindly,  becoming  at 
once  interested  in  one  who  appealed,  by  her  modesty  and 
unconscious  grace,  to  both  his  taste  and  sympathy.  * '  Do 
not  be  so  frightened,  and  tell  me  how  you  came  here. ' ' 

"  I  heard  your  horse's  steps,  and  I  was  afraid  and  hid 
myseli  But  I  was  in  sore  trouble,  sir  ;  and  when  I  saw 
you  kneel  in  prayer,  I  thought  you  might  be  willing  to 
counsel  one  of  the  '  little  ones  '  of  whom  the  Bible  speaks." 

**  I  shall  be  glad  to  advise  you  if  I  can  ;  but  why  not  take 


358  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

counsel   of  the   Bible  itself  ?     That  is  the  best  and  surest 
guide." 

"  I  have  not  any,  sir  ;  it  was  burned, "  she  said,  her  tears 
falling  fast.  Then  she  added  eagerly,  ' '  Is  the  Bible  a  sure 
guide  ?" 

"  Certainly,  ";^y  child.     How  came  you  to  doubt  it  ?'* 

"  I  have  been  told  that  a  great  many  people  are  losing 
feith  in  it." 

'•  I  have  not  lost  faith  in  it,**  said  the  stranger,  with  quiet 
emphasis.  And  he  took  up  the  little  volume  reverently, 
adding,  "  This  book  commends  itself  to  my  judgment  and 
conscience  more  and  more  every  day." 

•'  Is  that  a  Bible  ?"  asked  Vera  eagerly,  and  he  marked 
her  wistful  gaze.  "  Oh  !"  she  added,  again  putting  her 
hand  to  her  side,  "  how  long  it  is  since  I  have  seen  one  !" 

"  This  is  all  very  strange,"  said  the  stranger  musingly. 
"  Who  are  you,  my  child,  and  how  came  you  to  doubt  the 
Bible?" 

•'  My  name  is  Vera  Brown,  sir.  We  are  poor  people, 
and  live  back  among  these  mountains.  My  mother,  who 
is  dead,  taught  me  to  believe  the  Bible  ;  but  it  was  burned 
in  our  old  home  by  some  bad  men. ,  I  have  not  been  able 
to  get  one  since,  and  I  am  forgetting  its  teachings.  And 
yet  I  have  great  reason  now  to  remember  them.  I  don't 
know  what  is  right  and  true,  but  I  must  decide.  When  I 
saw  you  kneeling,  I  thought  perhaps  God  had  given  me  a 
chance  to  ask." 

"  Perhaps  He  did,  my  child.  '  God  is  faithful ;  He  will 
not  suffer  you  to  be  tempted  above  that  ye  are  able. 

"  Oh  !  I  have  been  so  tempted,"  said  Vera,  bursting  into 
tears  ;  "  and  it  seemed  as  if  God  had  left  me  to  struggle 
alone.     I  was  told  the  Bible  was  not  true." 

"  Who  told  you  this  ?"  asked  the  stranger,  a  flush  of  in- 
dignation rising  to  his  face. 


A    STRANGER'S   COUNSEL.  359 

In  painful  embarrassment  she  faltered,  "  Father  does  not 
believe  as  mother  did." 

"  Then  remain  true  to  your  mother's  teaching,"  was  the 
decided  response  ;  "  and  rest  assured  that  anything  which 
the  Bible  condemns  will  end  only  in  wretchedness." 

"  That  is  what  mother  told  me." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  be  guided  by  the  Bible  V  asked  the 
stranger  very  gravely. 

"  I  will  try  to  be,"  faltered  Vera,  "  as  far  as  I  can  re- 
member it." 

'  *  I  will  take  away  all  excuse  for  failure.  You  shall  have 
mine  ;"  and  he  placed  the  little  book  in  her  hands. 

"  May  God  bless  you,  sir,  for  this  gift.  I  did  not  expect 
so  much.     Never  did  one  need  it  more." 

"  Repay  me  by  doing  just  as  it  bids  you,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  kindly  interest  kindling  in  his  eyes. 

"  God  help  me  to  do  so  !"  she  replied  in  a  low  tone,  but 
growing  almost  faint  as  she  thought  of  all  that  obedience 
involved.  "  I  have  one  question  more,"  she  began,  but 
stopped  in  deep  embarrassment. 

"  Well,  my  child,  do  not  be  afraid  ;  you  may  trust  me." 

"  I  was  sure  of  that  when  I  first  saw  you,  sir." 

'  *  You  were }  Well,  that  pleases  me  more  than  all  the 
fine  things  I  ever  had  said  to  me.  But  you  are  not  mak- 
ing good  your  trust,  and  seem  afraid  to  speak  your  mind.'' 

"  I  have  been  told,"  continued  Vera,  "  that  the  wise  and 
great  are  the  ones  who  doubt  the  Bible — people  who  are 
able  to  think  for  themselves — and  that  those  who  believe  it 
do  not  or  cannot  think  for  themselves.  " 

"  That  is  always  the  arrogant  way  of  these  skeptics,"  he 
replied  indignantly.  "  Those  who  do  not  at  once  accept 
their  ever-shifting  vagaries,  are  set  down  as  fools  or  bigots." 
Then,  looking  at  the  timid  maiden  standing  before  him  hi 
almost  trembling  expectancy,  his  face  relaxed,  and  he  added 


36o  it  EAR    TO  NATURES  HEART. 

smilingly,  "  I  will  try  to  satisfy  your  mind  on  this  point 
also,  and  will  be  a  trifle  more  confidential  than  I  imagine 
you  have  been  with  me.  /  think  for  myself,  and  have  to 
think  for  a  great  many  others  ;  and  though  I  may  be 
neither  '  wise'  nor  '  great,'  I  am  General  Washington." 

Vera  stepped  back  and  bowed  reverently. 

•'No,  my  child,  no  need  of  that,"  said  Washington  j 
"  bow  only  to  the.  Being  to  whom  we  have  both  knelt,  and 
on  whom  we  are  both  alike  dependent.  Trust  and  obey 
Him,  and  all  v/ill  be  well.  And  now,  good-by.  If  we 
ever  meet  again,  I  shall  ask  you  if  you  have  been  true  to  the 
Book  in  which  your  mother  taught  you  to  believe." 

A  sudden  change  came  over  the  shrinking  maiden,  and, 
springing  forward  with  the  freedom  and  impetuosity  of  a 
child,  she  took  his  hand,  saying, 

"  The  God  of  the  orphan  bless  your  Excellency.  Yor 
will  lead  our  armies  to  victory.  I  know  it.  God  will  an- 
swer, through  you,  your  own  prayer." 

As  Washington  looked  down  into  the  beautiful,  eager  &ce 
turned  to  him,  his  eyes  moistened,  and  he  said,  after  a 
moment, 

*'  Thank  you,  my  child.  Your  words  and  manner 
strengthen  me.  You  have  helped  me  as  I  hope  I  have 
aided  you.  You  have  your  burden  to  bear  here  in  these 
lonely  mountains,  as  truly  as  I  have  mine  out  in  the  troubled 
world.  For  aught  I  know  yours  may  be  the  heavier.  But 
God  will  sustain  us  both  if  we  ask  Him.  Good-by,"  and 
he  rode  away  toward  West  Point 

Vera  afterward  learned  that  his  visit  there  was  a  transient 
one  of  inspection.  In  accordance  with  a  habit  to  which, 
perhaps,  the  profoundest  philosophy  will  ascribe  the  final 
success  of  the  American  arms,  he  had  sought  retirement  in 
the  forest  that  he  might  entreat  the  Almighty  in  behalf  of 
the  cause  to  which  he  vk^as  devoted. 


THE  PARTING.  $6 1 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 


THE    PARTING. 


VERA  sat  down  on  the  rock  which  he  had  occupied, 
and,  turning  to  the  chapters  that  her  mother's  teach- 
ings had  made  most  famihar,  she  read  until  the  deepening 
twihght  blurred  the  page.     As  she  rose  she  exclaimed, 

"It  is  true  ;  it  proves  itself.  It  meets  my  need  as  the 
light  does  my  eye.  My  conscience  echoes  every  word.  O 
Theron,  Theron  !  we  must  indeed  part  !"  and  she  bowed 
her  head  upon  the  little  book,  and  wept  until  she  was  al- 
most too  exhausted  to  reach  her  home. 

For  several  days  following  she  did  little  else  save  read  the 
Bible,  and  think  long  and  deeply  over  its  teachings.  Every 
day  deepened  the  conviction  that  its  words  v/ere  those  of  One 
who  had  the  right  to  say  to  His  earthly  children.  My  will  is 
your  only  true,  safe  law  of  action.  The  Bible' s  teachings 
and  principles  so  commended  themselves  to  her  conscience 
and  unperverted  nature  that  she  felt  that  she  must  doubt  her 
own  existence — doubt  everything — or  else  take  her  old  faith 
back  into  her  heart  with  more  than  her  old  childlike  trust ; 
with  the  strong  and  assured  confidence,  rather,  of  one  who 
has  tested  a  friend  in  a  desperate  emergency,  and  found  him 
stanch  and  steadfast 

Thus  the  question  of  right  and  duty  was  brought  clearly 
to  an  issue  ;  the  question  which  she  tried  to  put  off  in  its 
full  and  final  settlement  until  she  had  wholly  satisfied  her 
mind  that  her  lover's  views  were  fallacious. 


302  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

She  now  felt  perfectly  sure  that  he  was  wrong  ;  and  yet  it 
was  agony  to  come  to  the  irrevocable  decision  which  would 
doom  herself  to  the  old,  lonely,  and  unprotected  state,  and, 
what  was  still  worse,  to  darken  his  life  with  grief  and  perhaps 
despair.  What  might  he  not  do  in  his  reckless  unbelief  ? 
In  her  intense  affection  she  was  almost  ready  to  cast  herself 
awa)-,  deliberately  and  consciously.  Were  it  not  for  that 
one  word,  duty,  which  meant  so  much  to  her,  she  might 
have  been  tempted  to  do  so.  If  she  were  sure  that  she 
alone  would  suffer  all  the  evil  consequences,  her  grateful 
love,  her  strong  desire  to  make  him  happy  at  any  cost  to  her- 
self, might  almost  lead  to  the  boundless  self-sacrifice. 

"  But  it  v.'ould  not  be  right,"  she  murmured  ;  "  and  as 
sure  as  there  is  a  God,  I  can  never  make  him  happy  by  do- 
ing wrong. 

She  went  out  to  their  trysting-place  on  the  hill-side,  where 
she  had  been  so  sorely  tempted,  resolving  that  she  would 
settle  the  question  there  once  and  forever. 

Laying  Washington's  Bible  on  a  rock  beside  her,  she 
leaned  her  head  upon  it,  and  sighed, 

"It's  earth  or  heaven  ;  it's  God  or  Theron  ;  it's  a  snatch 
at  something  forbidden,  or  a  long,  dark  journey  to  my  rest ; 
for,  in  giving  him  up,  I  banish  the  possibility  of  the  faintest 
ray  of  happiness  in  this  world.  O  God  !  help  me,  like  a 
kind,  strong  Father  ;  direct  and  sustain  thy  helpless  child. 
If  I  must  decide  against  Theron,  let  no  harm  come  to 
him." 

Was  it  an  audible  voice  that  answered  ?  The  suggestion 
of  inspired  words  that  had  helped  her  once  before  was  so 
strong  and  vivid  that  they  seemed  as  if  spoken. 

"  Commit  thy  way  unto  the  Lord  ;  trust  also  in  Him  ; 
and  He  shall  bring  it  to  pass." 

As  if  directly  addressed,  she  replied,  with  passionate  ear- 
nestness, 


THE  PARTING.  3^3 

"  I  will  obey  Thee  ;  I  will  trust  Thee  ;  there  is  no  othei 
right  or  safe  course  for  either  Theron  or  myself." 

In  the  solemn  hush  that  followed,  she  felt  as  if  a  kind 
hand  rested  on  her  head  in  blessing.  The  guilty  fear  and 
disquietude  fled  from  her  heart  like  ill-omened  shadows, 
and  in  their  place  came  a  deeper  peace,  a  stronger  sense  of 
security  than  she  had  ever  known  before.  Her  mother's 
face,  which  had  so  long  appeared  averted  in  reproachful  sor- 
row, was  now  beaming  upon  her  in  approving  love. 

"  O  God  !  I  thank  Thee,"  she  cried,  lifting  her  tearful 
face  to  heaven.  "  I  will  never  doubt  Thee  again.  Mother, 
dear  mother,  you  are  not  lost  to  me.  i  am  as  sure  you  live 
as  that  I  live." 

If  Saville  had  then  come,  her  strong  feeling  and  revived 
faith  would  have  made  the  ordeal  of  parting  less  hard  to  en- 
dure ;  but  week  after  week  passed  and  still  she  did  not  hear 
from  him.  At  last  Tascar  brought  a  letter,  given  him  by 
Surgeon  Jasper  at  West  Point.  It  assured  her  of  his  con- 
tinued safety,  and  every  word  breathed  of  the  love  and  hope 
which  she  must  disappoint.  If  it  had  contained  the  tidings 
of  his  death,  she  could  have  scarcely  wept  over  it  more  often 
and  bitterly.  But  she  did  not  waver  in  her  decision  ;  and 
in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  far  beneath  all  the  tumultuous 
waves  of  her  sorrow,  the  consciousness  of  peace  and  security 
remained.  She  was  also  gaining  an  assurance  that  God,  in 
some  v/ay,  would  make  her  loyalty  to  duty  result  in  win- 
ning her  lover  from  his  skepticism. 

She  did  not  dare  to  let  her  mind  dwell  on  their  meeting, 
his  disappointment,  and  the  inevitable  parting  tiiat  must  fol- 
low ;  but  her  constant  prayer  was  that  she  might  be  firm, 
and  that  he  might  not  become  reckless  and  desperate. 

At  last  one  September  afternoon  Saville  came,  and,  as 
was  his  custom,  stole  into  the  glen  that  he  might  surprise 
her.      From  the  hill-side  in  his  descent  he  saw  her  seated 


364  NEAR    TO  NATURES  HEART. 

on  a  ledge  that  projected  from  a  rock  lying  near  the  cabin 
door.  He  silently  approached  and  looked  over  the  boulder. 
His  eyes  at  first  dwelt  only  on  the  maiden  with  an  expres- 
sion of  the  deepest  affection  ;  then  they  fell  on  the  page  she 
was  reading,  and  he  saw  that  the  book  was  the  Bible. 

He  became  very  pale,  and  gave  the  little  volume  almost  a 
scowl  of  hate.  Instead  of  announcing  his  presence  in  some 
playful  manner,  as  he  had  intended,  he  went  directly  around 
the  rock  into  her  presence,  with  the  aspect  of  one  who,  feel- 
ing that  he  must  face  a  dreadful  crisis,  will  do  it  at  once  ; 
but  she,  in  the  strong,  sudden  impulse  of  her  heart,  sprang 
into  his  arms,  as  if  it  had  been  her  light. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  true,  loyal  Vera  ;  I  was  dreading  a 
different  reception,"  he  said,  as  if  an  infinite  burden  were 
lifted  from  his  mind. 

But  her  fast-falling  tears,  and  the  manner  in  which  she 
extricated  herself  from  his  embrace,  disappointed  the  hope 
\fhich  her  impulsive  reception  had  raised,  and  he  almost  de- 
spaired, as  she  said, 

"  Come  with  me,  Theron  ;  let  our  farewell  be  where  no 
eye  can  see  us  save  that  of  our  pitying  God." 

"  Do  not  say  '  our,'  "   he  replied  harshly. 

"  Yes,  Theron,  our  God,  though  you  may  not  believe 
Him  now.      I  have  found  light  that  is  unmistakable." 

"  Where  have  you  found  it  ?" 

"In  this  Bible." 

"  Curses " 

She  put  her  hand  to  his  lips, 

"  O  Vera  !  this  is  worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death. 
Why  did  you  not  let  me  die  in  Fort  Clinton  ?" 

* '  Theron,  don' t  break  my  heart. 

"  Is  it  nothing  that  you  are  breaking  mine  ?" 

"God  pity  us  both,"  she  sobbed,  burying  her  face  in 
her  hands. 


THE  PARTING.  365 

They  had  now  reached  the  spot  on  the  hill-side  which  had 
been  their  favorite  tr}- sting -place  and  the  scene  of  strong 
temptation,  conflict,  and  victory.  He  seated  her  on  a  rock  ; 
but,  instead  of  being  his  old  gentle  self,  he  seemed  to  have 
become  a  man  of  stone.  For  some  little  time  her  emotion 
was  so  great  that  she  could  not  speak  ;  he  would  not  At 
last,  she  asked  brokenly, 

"  Theron,  do  you  doubt  my  love?" 

"  You  listen  to  old  bigots  rather  than  to  me." 

"  Is  General  Washington  a  bigot  i" 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  then  said,  "  He  has  not  thought 
on  these  things.  He  simply  accepts  what  he  is  too  indiffer- 
ent to  question." 

' '  But  he  told  me  that  he  thought  very  deeply  on  these 
subjects." 

"  He  told  you  !  Vera,  you  are  talking  wildly.  Can  it 
be  that  you  have  brooded  so  long  over  these  wretched  su- 
perstitions that  your  mind  is  becoming  unsettled  ?" 

"  No,  Theron  ;  my  mind  never  vras  so  clear  before. 
Only  my  heart  is  faint  and  pierced  with  sorrow  because  we 
must  part     Look  at  the  fly-leaf  of  this  Bible." 

He  read,  in  the  clear,  unmistakable  hand  that  he  well 
knew,  the  name  "  George  Washington." 

"  He  gave  it  to  me  himself,"   continued  Vera. 

"  Am  I  dreaming.?"  muttered  Saville,  in  a  low  troubled 
tone. 

"  Theron,"  said  Vera,  laying  her  hand  appealingly  on 
his  shoulder,  "  have  pity  I  be  patient  with  me,  and  I  will 
tell  you  all.  You  can  never  know  what  this  effort  is  costing 
me.  Going  after  you  to  Fort  Clinton  was  nothing  in  com- 
parison. You  caused  my  faith  to  waver  by  your  strong  argu- 
ment that  all  the  practical  help  I  ever  had  was  human  help 
— human  only.  I  have  had  human  help  again  ;  but  I  have 
come  to  see  that  God  helps  us  and  speaks  to  us  through 


366  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

creatures  like  ourselves.  Even  you  will  be  inclined  to  ad- 
mit that  the  fact  that  I  have  received  personal  counsel  from 
General  Washington  is  so  strange  as  to  be  more  than  chance, 
and  yet  it  is  true. ' '     And  she  told  him  how  it  happened. 

"  In  asking  his  counsel  I  do  not  seek  to  know  whether 
you  mentioned  my  name,"  said  Saville  gloomily;  "fori 
have  not  sought  to  tempt  you  to  evil." 

"  Believe  me,  Theron,  I  never  gave  him — nor  shall  I  ever 
give  any  one— a  hint  or  clue  of  that  which  is  between  our- 
selves and  our  God.  The  truth  of  the  Bible  was  the  only 
question  on  which  I  needed  light.  That  settles  all  the 
others.  Theron,  it  is  true  !  I  know  it,  as  I  know  I  exist  1 
I  am  not  wise  enough  to  answer  your  arguments  ;  but  I 
have  come  to  that  point  in  which  I  am  not  so  sure  of  any. 
thing  as  that  the  Bible  is  true. 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  fairly  groaned  in  the 
agony  of  his  disappointment. 

"Theron,"  said  Vera,  with  a  burning  blush,  "you 
could  not  love  such  a  woman  as  you  have  described  your — 
your  wife  to  be." 

"  Why  stab  me  with  that  word  ?"   he  cried  passionately. 

"  Suppose  I  should  become  like  her." 

"  Impossible." 

'•  You  do  not  understand  a  woman's  heart.  You  have 
learned  to  love  me  as  a  simple,  childlike  girl,  innocent  if  ig- 
norant, gentle  and  loving,  if  not  strong  and  wise.  Could 
you  love  me  if  I  became  a  reckless,  passionate  woman  ? 
Pardon  me  that  I  speak  so  plainly,  and,  in  this  agony  of 
parting,  pass  beyond  maidenly  reserve  and  delicacy.  But, 
since  we  must  part,  I  wish  you  to  see  the  necessity.  The- 
ron, you  are  too  good  a  man  to  love  what  I  would  become 
if  I  should  turn  my  back  on  my  faith,  my  mother's  dying 
words,  and  my  God.  You  know  that  I  have  been  brought 
face  to  face  with  awful  peril,  and  yet  never  have  I  so  trem- 


THE  PARTING.  367 

bled  at  anything  as  I  have  at  the  dark  abyss  that  seemed 
opening  in  my  own  soul.  At  one  time,  Theron,  I  was  al- 
most ready  to  lose  my  soul  for  your  sake,"  she  continued 
in  a  low  tone  ;  ' '  and  were  I  sure  now  that  I  only  would 
suffer,  that  my  remediless  loss  would  be  your  happiness,  I 
should  scarcely  dare  trust  myselL  But  God  in  mercy  has 
removed  this  temptation,  and  I  have  been  shown  that  wrong 
on  my  part  would  eventually  mean  wretchedness  on  yours. 
There,  Theron,  I  have  shown  you  all  my  heart,  and  I  ap- 
peal to  your  own  noble  manhood  to  protect  me. " 

"  My  manhood  is  gone.  I  am  utterly  crushed  and 
broken.  Since  to  you  it  is  a  crime  to  keep  my  ring,  give 
it  to  me  and  let  me  go.  I  can  endure  the  torment  of  my 
loss  no  longer." 

••  O  Theron,  Theron  !"  Vera  sobbed. 

'*  If  there  is  no  help  for  it,  give  me  the  ring,  and  let  me 
go  before  I  become  mad.'"' 

Slowly  and  reluctantly  she  drew  off  the  two  rings,  as  if  the 
effort  were  almost  beyond  her  power.  He  snatched  his 
from  her,  and  ground  it  into  the  earth  under  his  heel. 

She  saw  with  terror  that  he  was  taking  counsel  of  despair. 
Acting  on  an  impulse  to  save  him  from  himself,  she  again 
drew  off  her  mother's  ring,  and  seizing  his  hand,  she 
pressed  it,  with  difficulty,  on  his  little  finger. 

"  Theron,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "if  it  is  wrong,  I  can- 
not help  it ;  but  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart  Wear 
this  priceless  relic — my  dead  mother's  wedding-ring — as  ta- 
ken of  my  pledge  that,  since  I  cannot  marry  you,  I  will 
never  marry  any  one  else.  Let  its  faint  gleam  ever  remind 
you  that  if  you  raise  this  hand  against  youreelf,  you  strike 
me  a  more  fatal  blow." 

In  answer  to  this  appeal,  his  dry,  darkly  suggestive  eyes 
for  the  first  time  moistened,  and  grew  somewhat  gentle  in 
Aeir  expression. 


368  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  Vera,"  he  said,  pressing  the  ring  to  his  Ups,  "  you  are 
stronger  and  braver  than  I  ;  you  have  more  than  human 
fortitude.  Though  I  scarcely  know  whether  to  thank  you 
or  not,  I  beheve  your  words  and  gift  have  again  saved  my 
life.  Your  promise,  of  which  this  ring  is  the  token,  holds 
out  a  glimmer  of  hope,  and  without  hope  who  can  live  ?  I 
can  trust  myself  here  no  longer." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  one  brief  moment,  then  dashed 
away.  A  little  later  the  sound  of  his  horse' s  feet  echoed 
from  the  opposite  hill-side,  but  died  quickly  in  the  distance. 

It  was  well  for  both  that  he  did  not  see  her  weakness,  her 
grief  that  was  almost  as  despairing  as  his  own,  which  fol- 
lowed his  departure. 

At  last  she  crept  home  in  the  dusk,  repeating  over  and 
over  again,  as  her  only  comfort, 

"  Like  as  a  father  pilieth  his  children,  so  the  Lord  pitieth 
them  that  fear  Him." 


PEEKING  DEATH,  3*9 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

SEEKING    DEATH. 

A  YEAR  had  almost  passed  since  the  parting  described 
in  the  previous  chapter— a  year  of  patient  fidelity  to 
duty  on  the  part  of  Vera,  a  year  that  was  clouded  by  the 
deepest  melancholy  and  almost  despair  in  the  case  of  Saville. 
For  a  long  time  he  had  cherished  faint  hopes  that  her  forti- 
tude might  fail  ;  that  his  arguments,  from  being  more  fully 
dwelt  upon,  would  have  their  weight ;  and,  chief  of  all,  that 
her  loneliness  and  love  might  overcome  her  resolution. 
While  recognizing  the  truth  that  she  was  acting  conscien- 
tiously and  heroically,  he  still  believed  that  the  only  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  their  happiness  was  the  tenacious  hold  of  her 
old  superstitions  upon  her  mind.  The  fact  that  their  mutual 
suffering  seemed  so  unnecessary  made  him  chafe  all  the 
more,  and  his  mind  and  body  were  giving  evidences  of  the 
bitterness  of  the  long-continued  ordeal.  Perpetual  gloom 
lowered  upon  his  brow  ;  at  times,  fits  of  abstraction  almost 
unfitted  him  for  his  duties,  and  again  he  would  be  reckless 
and  inclined  to  dissipation. 

To  his  old  acquaintances,  his  wife's  conduct  accounted 
for  his  manner  and  actions  ;  but  Surgeon  Jasper  knew  of 
the  deeper  wound,  and  was  often  tempted  to  inform  Vera  of 
the  disastrous  results  of  Saville' s  disappointment.  Indeed, 
he  would  have  done  so  had  not  the  young  man  charged  him, 
almost  harshly,  "  not  to  meddle. " 

At  first  Saville  haa  lound  some  soUce  in  sending  Vera,  by 


370  NEAR   TO  NA  TURE'S  HEART. 

the  hand  of  Tascar,  such  things  as  he  thought  might  add  tc 
her  comfort ;  but  she  soon,  in  a  brief  letter,  gently  but  firmly 
declined  to  receive  his  gifts,  and  entreated  him  to  remember 
that  they  must  accept  their  whole  duty,  and  school  their 
hearts  into  submission. 

But  there  was  this  radical  difference  between  them  :  while 
her  suffering  was  the  keener,  because  of  the  sensitiveness  and 
delicacy  of  her  nature,  she  was  finding  increasing  strength 
and  calmness  from  the  Divine  help  that  is  ever  given  in  an- 
swer to  prayer. 

He  was  unaided  in  his  struggle,  and,  if  he  still  believed 
that  man  was  a  law  unto  himself,  he  was  learning  by  bitter 
experience  that  he  is  not  sufficient  in  himself  for  life's 
emergencies.  He  had  at  last  reached  that  desperate  condi- 
tion in  which,  though  still  restrained  by  Vera's  words  and 
the  ring  she  had  given  him  from  any  directly  suicidal  act, 
he  was  only  too  ready  to  throw  away  his  life  by  reckless  ex- 
posure in  the  first  battle  that  occurred. 

Vera  learned  of  his  growing  despair  and  consequent  dan- 
gerous moods  in  a  rather  peculiar  way.  In  introducing 
Tascar  to  the  secluded  cabin,  Saville  had  virtually  provided 
lor  the  household,  for  the  boy  proved  the  most  ubiquitous, 
industrious  personality  that  ever  taxed  earth,  air,  and  water 
for  the  means  of  livelihood.  He  soon  became  as  accurate  a 
shot  as  Vera  herself,  and  she  had  no  more  occasion  to  range 
the  hills  with  her  gun  save  as  a  pastime.  His  knowledge  of 
the  instincts  and  habits  of  game  made  escape  from  his  cun- 
ningly prepared  traps  and  snares  very  improbable.  His 
good  luck  as  a  fisherman  became  almost  unvarying,  because 
he  knew  just  when  and  where  to  go.  He  enlarged  the  gar- 
den which  he  had  made  the  preceding  year,  and  kept  it 
green  and  flourishing  by  turning  through  it  a  brook  that 
had  its  unfailing  source  deep  in  the  mountains.  He  scoured 
the  hills  and  valleys  for  wild  fruits  in  their  season,  and  these. 


SEEKING  DEATH.  371 

with  the  surplus  of  game,  found  a  ready  sale  at  the  garrison 
of  West  Point. 

Vera  had  thoroughly  adopted  Saville's  plan  of  perfect 
openness,  and  would  permit  nothing  that  looked  like  guilty 
fear  or  desire  for  concealment.  Thus,  through  her  manage- 
ment and  Tascar's  able  seconding,  the  little  cabin  was  be- 
coming a  recognized  base  of  supplies  for  several  officers' 
messes  ;  and  Saviile  had  always  been  ready  to  buy  every- 
thing that  his  quondam  servant  brought,  whether  he  wanted 
it  or  not. 

In  answer  to  her  father's  questions  concerning  Saville's 
long- continued  absence,  Vera  had  said  briefly, 

"  Circumstances  are  such  that  Mr.  Saviile  cannot  marry 
me,  and  since  he  cannot,  it  is  best  for  us  both  that  his  visits 
should  cease.  Ask  me  no  further.  Let  it  satisfy  you  that 
he  has  acted  toward  me  like  an  honorable  man,  as  he  is, 
and  that  he  is  still  a  true  friend  on  whom  I  can  call  should 
I  need  him." 

The  exile  turned  gloomily  away,  satisfied  that  Saviile  at 
last  realized  the  folly  of  allying  himself  to  the  daughter  of 
one  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  criminal  ;  but  from  that  time 
his  remorseful  pity  and  tenderness  for  Vera  increased. 

Tascar's  success  as  a  huckster  finally  led  to  his  acquaint- 
ance with  a  redoubtable  negro  by  the  name  of  Pompey,  for 
whom  the  boy  soon  conceived  a  strong  friendship,  and  a 
boundless  admiration.  Pompey  was  ostensibly  following  a 
like  calling  ;  but,  in  supplying  the  British  garrison  at  Stony 
Point,  he  brought  away  shining  coin  for  his  fruits  and  vege- 
tables, instead  of  the  depreciated  Continental  money  which 
was  paid  chiefly  at  West  Point.  This  fact  alone  gave  the 
elder  sable  trader  a  marked  pre-eminence. 

But  one  day  Pompey  took  Tascar  into  the  depth  of  the 
forest,  and,  with  great  mystery  and  solemnity  informed  him, 

"You'  se  a  peart  likely  boy,  and  I'se  'bout  to  put  you  up 


372  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

a  peg  higher.  I'se  a-gwine  to  let  you  inter  a  deep  'spir- 
acy." 

**  Where  is  dis  deep  hole,  an'  how  deep' 11  I  hab  ter  go 
in?"  asked  Tascar,  in  some  trepidation  from  Pompey's 
words  and  manner. 

"  What  a  chile  you  is  !"  said  Pompey  loftily.  "  'Tain't 
a  hole  ;  it's  a  'spiracy  agin  de  Red-coats.  Does  you  tink  I 
goes  down  to  de  Britishers  at  Stony  P'int  to  hawk  benies? 
My  mas' r,  Capting  Lamb,  doesn't  need  to  sell  berries;  I 
takes  a  heap  mo'  inter  de  fort  dan  I  carries  in  my  basket." 

**  What  does  you  take  .?"  asked  Tascar,  agape  with  curi= 
osity. 

**  I  takes  dese  two  eyes.     I  takes  dese  two  ears." 

"  Well,  you  doesn't  sell  'em  ?" 

*•  What  a  chile  you  is  !  I  comes  back  wid  my  basket 
empty,  but  my  head  is  chuck  full,  an'  I  tells  mas'r  all  I 
sees  an'  hears,  an'  he  tells  a  'Merican  ossifer,  an'  soon 
Gin'ral  Washington  hisself  knows  all  /does."  And  at  this 
point  Pompey  assumed  an  air  of  such  mysterious  importance 
that  Tascar  was  deeply  awed. 

'*  Fraps  we  II  take  dat  ar  British  fort.  We're  a-thinkin' 
ob  it,"  continued  Pompey,  half  in  soliloquy.  "  It  'pends 
werry  largely  on  me.  Now  it  isn't  'comin'  dat  a  man  in 
my  'sponsible  'sition  should  be  out  berryin'  all  de  time. 
I'se  got  to  tink"  (with  a  suggestive  tap  on  his  forehead); 
**  an'  while  I'se  a  prowidin'  sumfin'  dat  you  doesn't  know 
nuffin'  'bout,  an'  what  is  called  strogedy,  you  can  pick  de 
berries  an'  bring  'em  to  me,  an'  I'll  gib  you  de  shiners  for 
'em.  Your  part  ob  de  'spiracy  is  to  pick  de  berries  an' 
keep  your  mouf  shut,  an'  den  some  dark  night  you'll  hear 
more'n  you  eber  did  in  de  daytime." 

Though  Tascar' s  share  in  the  dark  conspiracy  against  the 
British  garrison  was  rather  humble,  he  was  more  than  satis- 
fied, and  was  so  elated  with  his  secret  and  his  importance 
that  old  Gula  asked, 


SEEA'IXG  DEATH.  373 

"  What's  de  matter,  chile  ?  'Pears  like  you'se  a-bustin' 
wid  sumfin'." 

But  Tascar,  by  a  mighty  effort,  was  able  to  keep  his 
"  mouf  shut." 

Vera  also  asked,  "  How  is  it  you  get  coin  of  late  for  the 
fruit?" 

"I  gits  it  honest,  Missy  Vera,"  was  all  that  the  sable 
sphinx  would  vouchsafe. 

But  one  July  midnight  he  roused  them  all  by  his  wild  and 
excited  cries. 

"  Dar  I  dar  !"  he  shouted,  "  Pompey's  goin'  fur  de 
Red-coats.  I'se  in  de  'spiracy,  an'  mus'  go  to  look  arter 
it,"  and  he  started  southward,  in  spite  of  his  mother's  ex- 
postulations. 

The  heavy  jar  of  a  brief  cannonade,  and  the  faint  reports 
of  musketry,  satisfied  Vera  and  her  father  that  a  battle  was 
in  progress.  To  the  maiden  these  sounds  suggested  danger 
to  the  one  ever  present  in  her  thoughts,  and,  in  the  solemn 
night,  they  were  peculiarly  ominous  and  depressing. 

She  soon  learned  how  profoundly  she  had  reason  to  dread 
such  evidences  of  battle,  for  one  evening,  a  few  days  after 
the  capture  of  Stony  Point,  Tascar  induced  his  great  lu- 
minary, Pompey,  to  come  and  beam  on  the  inmates  of  the 
cabin  for  an  hour,  and  to  relate  the  events  of  the  assault,  as 
far  as  he  saw  and  imagined  them.  Tascar  was  peculiarly 
eager  to  bring  about  the  recitation  of  this  epic,  not  only  that 
he  might,  as  one  of  the  "  'spirators,"  reflect  a  few  rays  of 
Pompey's  glory  ;  but  also  that  his  master  might  learn  of  an 
important  American  success,  and  that  Vera  might  hear  how 
Strangely  Saville  had  acted.  He  introduced  his  friend  as  the 
hero  of  the  occasion,  declaring  excitedly, 

*'  Does  you  believe,  Mas'r  Brown,  Pompey  tuk  our  folks 
right  into  de  fort,  an'  cotched  'bout a  million  Red-coats  ?" 

**  Well,"  began  Pompey,  with  a  patronizing  glance  at  Tas- 


$74  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

car,  '*  I  don't'spose  derewas  quite  so  many  as  dat,  an'  den 
you  mus'  know,  Mas'r  Brown,  dat  I  had  'siderable  help. 
From  what  dis  yer  peart  boy  hab  told  me,  you'se  'ud  like  to 
know  how  'twas  done." 

"  We  would  indeed,"  said  Vera,  welcoming  anything 
that  beguiled  her  sad  thoughts  for  an  hour.  Tascar  had 
not  told  her  that  Pompey  had  aught  to  relate  of  Saville,  for 
he  was  magnanimous  enough  to  detract  in  no  respect  from 
the  force  and  freshness  of  his  friend's  narration.  He  had 
hinted  to  Pompey  that  Mas'  r  Brown  would  be  greatly  pleased 
to  hear  any  tidings  of  Saville  ;  but,  with  a  little  diplomacy 
of  his  own,  said  nothing  of  Vera's  interest.  He  had  not 
been  a  member  of  a  "  'spiracy"  for  nothing,  and  could 
keep  other  secrets  than  those  of  Pompey  to  himself. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Mas'r  an'  Missy  Brown,"  Pompey  con- 
tinued, assuming  a  histrionic  air  and  attitude,  "  it  all  begin 
in  a  'spiracy,  an'  I  was  de  big  'spirator.  Dis  yer  chile  was 
in  de  'spiracy  too"  (and  he  laid  a  patronizing  hand  on  Tas- 
car's  head),  "  an'  his  part  was  to  pick  de  berries  an'  keep 
his  mouf  shut.      He's  a  peart  boy,  an'  a  good  'spirator." 

Tascar,  in  the  exuberance  of  his  delight  at  such  high 
praise,  stood  on  his  head  a  moment,  and  then  righted  him- 
self again  in  the  attitude  of  an  intensely  eager  listener. 

Pompey  complacently  waited  till  the  boy  was  through  with 
his  demonstration,  as  an  orator  or  actor  might  yield  a  mo- 
ment to  an  outburst  of  applause,  and  then  proceeded  : 

"  De  'spiracy  rested  on  two  tings  :  De  British  ossifers  like 
strawberries,  an'  my  mas'r  an'  Gin'ral  Washington  liked  ter 
know  what  de  Red-coats  was  up  ter.  I"  (with  an  air  of 
conscious  power)  ' '  was  able  to  guv  bof  parties  what  dey 
wanted.  I  tuck  de  berries  inter  de  fort,  an'  1  brought  back 
eberyting  I  seed  an'  heerd,  an'  often  my  head  was  fuller 
when  I  come  out  dan  my  basket  when  I  went  in.  Well,  ter 
git  in  an'  out  1  had  ter  hab  what  dey  call  a  countysign — a 


SEEKING  DEATH.  375 

sort  ob  sayin'  or  word  dat  is  like  a  key  dat  unlocks  de  do'. 
It's  a  mighty  quar  ting,  de  countysign  is  ;  it  jes'  makes 
'em  big  grannydeers  like  suckin'  Iambs,  when,  if  you  habn't 
any  countysign,  dey'd  spit  you  on  de  p'int  ob  dare  bayonets. 

"  Well,  I'se  had  allers  carried  de  berries  tode  Red-coats  in 
de  daytime  ;  but  arter  a  while  de  'spiracy  got  deeper,  and 
mas'r  tole  me  dat  Gin'ral  Washington  wanted  ter  see  if  he 
couldn'  t  tuck  de  fort  some  dark  night.  So  I  put  on  a  long 
face  de  nex'  time  I  went,  and  said, 

' '  *  Can't  git  here  no  mo'  in  daylight.  Hoein'  corn  time's 
come  ;  mas'r  can't  spare  me  ;'  and  dey  said,  '  Mus'  hab 
our  berries.  You  come  ebenin's,  and  we'll  let  you  in  and 
out;  for  you' se  an  innercent  darkey,  and  wouldn't  do  no 
more  harm  dan  a  mule.'  I  said,  '  Yes,  mas'rs,  I'se  jes'  as 
innercent  as  a  mule.'  An'  I  tole  de  truf  ;  for  you  know, 
Mas'  r  Brown,  you  neber  can  tell  when  a  mule  is  a-gwine  to 
kick  up. 

"  Well,  I  tuck  de  berries  in  at  night,  an'  all  went  smooth 
as  ile  a  few  days,  an'  de  countysign  let  me  in  an'  out  in  de 
dark  jes'  as  well  as  in  de  light.  On  de  fourteenth  ob  de 
month  my  mas'r  said,  '  Pompey,  you'se  got  a  long  head. 
We  don't  want  a  dorg  nowhar  near  Stony  P'int,  kase  dey 
might  bark  de  wrong  time,  you  know.  Can  you  fix  'em  so 
dey  won't  bark  to-morrow  night  ?'  an'  den  he  wink  one  eye 
jes'  dis  way. 

"  Den  I  knew  de  'spiracy  was  a-gittin'  deeper  yit,  an' 
takin'  in  de  dorgs.  Wheneber  dey  wanted  some  strogedy 
dey  allers  come  to  me,  an'  dey  knowed  dat  de  only  way  dey 
could  eber  git  aroun'  dem  ar  dorgs  was  by  strogedy.  I  tink 
po'ful  strong  a  few  minutes,  an'  den  I  said,  '  Mas'r  Lamb, 
jes'  leave  dem  dorgs  to  me.  If  any  ob  'em  barks  to-morrow 
night,  den  dorgs  hab  ghosts  jes'  as  much  as  oder  folks.' 
Dat  night  I  tuck  down  de  berries  in  one  basket  an'  sumfin' 
tor  de  dorgs  in  anoder.  Whar  I  knowed  people  lived  dat 
EOE— VIII— Q 


376  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

thought  mo'  ob  dare  dorgs  dan  ob  de  country  I  jes'  drap. 
ped  a  chunk  ob  seasoned  meat,  an'  watched  till  I  seed  it 
tucked  away  whar  it  would  be  werry  quietin'.  To  de  true- 
blue  Whigs  I  says,  '  Gin'ral  Washington  doesn't  want  no 
dorgs  barkin'  ter-morrow  night.'  Den  I  winked  jes'  as 
mas'r  did  an'  dat  was  enuff. 

"  I'se  been  'tickler  in  'latin'  dese  parts,  kase  here's  whar 
de  strogedy  comes  in,  an'  it  all  'pended  on  strogedy.  Any- 
body kin  fight  an'  git  knocked  on  de  head,  but  in  dis  case 
eberybody,  even  Gin'ral  Washington,  had  to  wait  till  I'd 
done  up  de  strogedy. 

"  Well,  de  fifteenth  come,  an'  it  was  a  big  day  an'  a  big- 
ger night.  You  heerd  de  guns,  but  dare  had  ter  be  a  po'ful 
lot  ob  strogedy  afore  dey  was  fired,  an'  all  de  great  gin'  rals 
an'  kunnels  an'  captings  foun'  dat  dey  couldn't  git  on  wid- 
out  Pompey.  Gin'ral  Wayne,  de  one  dey  call  '  Mad  An- 
terny,'  was  at  de  head  ob  it  all,  an'  he  'rived  sumfin'  less 
dan  two  mile  below  de  P'int  arter  dark,  an'  he  had  quite  a 
lot  ob  Continentals  wid  ^im,  not  so  wery  many,  dough,  for 
he  was  'pendin'  on  my  strogedy  more'n  hard  fightin'. 

"  Gin'ral  Wayne  stopped  his  men  out  ob  sight,  an'  was 
jes'  a-startin'  wid  a  lot  ob  his  big  ossifers  to  take  a  squint 
at  de  Britishers  an'  de  kaseway  leadin'  to  de  fort,  when  we 
heerd  a  hos  comin'  as  if  de  debbil  was  arter  him,  an'  some 
'un  dashed  up  like  mad,  '  Why,  Saville,'  said  Gin'ral 
Wayne,  '  how  in  de  name  ob  wonder  did  you  git  here  ?* 
'  I  jes'  heerd  what  was  on  foot,  an'  I  stole  away  to  jine 
de  'spedition  as  a  wolunteer. '  '  Kunnel  De  Fleury  says 
you're  mo'  reckless  dan  I  is,'  raid  de  gin'ral,  '  an'  it  won't 
do  ter  hab  too  many  hot  heads  in  dis  ticklish  bizness  ;  so  I'll 
put  you  in  charge  ob  de  kunnel,  and  you  must  keep  back 
and  'bey  orders.'  '  I  promise,  gin'ral,  to  keep  back,'  said 
de  one  dey  call  Saville,  'till  you  say  de  fust  man  dat  gits  \.b  de 
center  ob  de  fort  is  de  best  man,'  an'  den  dey  let  him  go." 


SEEKING  DEATH.  377 

Vera  had  been  listening  with  a  half  smile  upon  her  face, 
for  she  could  not  help  being  amused  by  the  negro's  droll 
manner  and  boundless  egotism  ;  but,  at  the  mention  of  Sa- 
ville's  name,  she  became  deathly  pale  and  very  faint ;  by 
great  effort,  however,  she  controlled  herself  sufficiently  not 
to  interrupt  the  narrative. 

"  Now,  you  mus'  know,  Mas'r  Brown,  dat  de  Britishers 
was  a  little  careless,  kase  dey  said  de  'sition  ob  de  fort  was 
so  po'ful  strong  dat  de  rebs  couldn't  tuck  it ;  an'  no  mo' 
dey  couldn'  t,  widout  strogedy,  an'  dat  was  de  reason  dey 
wanted  me  all  de  time.  De  fort  is  on  a  great,  high,  rocky 
hill,  an'  de  water  ob  de  ribber  comes  all  aroun'  in  front  ob 
it,  an'  to'rd  de  land  dere's  wide,  nasty  mash,  whar  de  mud 
is  deeper  nor  de  water,  an'  you'd  go  down  inter  it  kerchunk  1 
right  ober  yer  head.  Stony  P'int  is  a  kind  ob  island,  an' 
de  only  way  to  git  dare  is  by  a  long,  narrow  kaseway,  whar 
my  ole  missus,  wid  a  broomstick,  could  keep  back  a  reg'- 
ment.  We  could  only  git  across  dat  ar  place  by  strogedy, 
an'  so  dey  all  was  a  'pendin'  on  me. 

"Well,  Gin'ral  Wayne  an'  Kunnel  De  Fleury,  an'  him 
dey  call  Capting  Saville,  look  all  aroun'  as  near  as  dey 
an'  could  not  be  seen,  an'  all  was  still.  De  dorgs  was 
wery  quiet,  an'  dey  seed  dat  I  had  fixed  eberyting  jes' 
right. 

"  About  de  middle  ob  de  night  all  de  sogers  started,  an' 
I  goes  on  ahead  wid  de  gin'ral  an'  all  de  big  men,  kase  I 
had  de  countysign,  an'  was  to  keep  on  doin'  de  'portant 
part  of  the  strogedy.  I  had  to  Irab  de  help  now  ob  two 
Oder  'spirators  ;  so  dey  had  two  big  men  fixed  up  like  ole 
farmers,  an'  dey  was  to  go  along  wid  me.  When  de  sogers 
got  near  de  fort,  de  gin'ral  stopped  dem  agin,  an'  he  sent  me 
an'  de  ole  farmers  on  ahead,  while  he  an'  some  ossifersfollered 
slow  like.  Capting  Saville  wanted  to  go  wid  me,  but  de 
gin'ral  called  him  back. 


378  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  Well,  I  had  my  basket  ob  berries  jes'  de  same  as  eber 
— Tascar  here  pick  'em  fer  me — an'  deole  farmers  was  each 
a-carryin'  a  sheep  ;  an'  so  we  trudged  along  up  to  de  fust 
sentinel,  as  innercent  as  mules,  sure'nuff.  Demanknowed 
me,  an'  had  let  me  by  often  afore.  So  I  steps  up  to  him 
to  guv  de  countysign,  which  was  *  De  fort  is  our  own,'  an' 
de  ole  farmers  follered  close  on  my  heels.  While  I  was 
a-whisperin'  de  countysign  an'  a-talkin',  dey  was  to  carry 
out  de  rest  ob  de  strogedy. 

"  '  De  fort's  our  own,'  says  I  to  de  Britisher.  '  Correct, 
hand  hit' 11  stay  hour  hown,'  says  de  Red-coat.  '  You 
doesn't  tink  I'm  a-gwine  to  take  it  away  in  my  basket,  ter- 
night,  does  yer  ?'  '  What  hab  you  hin  de  basket  ?'  says 
he.  '  Help  yerself,'  says  I,  an'  while  he  was  a-fumblin' 
about  de  basket,  de  two  old  farmers  jump  on  him  an'  tuck 
away  his  muskit  an'  stopped  his  mouf  so  tight  he  couldn't 
git  no  berries  in  nor  no  sound  out.  Down  by  de  kaseway 
dere  was  anoder  sent'  nel,  but  we  come  de  strogedy  on  him, 
de  same  way. 

' '  But  de  tide  was  so  high  dat  even  de  kaseway  was  kivered 
wid  water,  an'  strogedy  couldn'  t  help  dat,  an'  so  dey  all  had 
ter  wait  till  de  tide  lowered.  But  Capting  Saville  wouldn't 
wait,  and  was  a-gwine  to  feel  his  way  ober  through  de  water 
when  de  gin'ral  call  him  back  agin.  Po'ful  brave  man, 
dat  Capting  Saville,  but  no  good  at  strogedy. 

"  At  last  we  all  got  ober,  sabe  a  big  lot  ob  men  dat  was 
to  stay  on  dis  side  for  a  resarve,  dey  said.  De  gin'ral  tole 
me  dat  I  needn't  go  no  furder ;  but  I  telled  him  dat  I'd 
done  my  part,  an  'bout  de  same  as  guv  him  de  fort,  and 
now  I'se  was  a-gwine  along  wid  him  and  see  how  he  did  his 
part.  He  larfed  and  says,  *  Pompey,  p'raps  you  is  de  big- 
gest gen'ral  ob  de  two.' 

"  Well,  he  d'wides  de  sogers  into  two  big  parties,  and  he 
tucks  one  and  Kunnel  De  Fleury  de  oder,  and  he  sent  ahead 


SEEKING  DEATH.  379 

ob  each  party  an  ossiferwid  twenty  men,  who  was  to  cot  away 
what  dey  call  de  'batis,  or  a  strong,  scragly  fence  ob  tree- 
tops,  all  sharpened  and  stuck  in  front  ob  de  fort  Dare 
was  two  thick  rows  ob  dese,  an'  I  pitied  dem  po'  fellers  who 
had  ter  go  ter  wood-choppin',  while  de  Red -coats  was  a-cut- 
tin'  dera  up.  Dey  called  dese  twenty  men  ahead  ob  each 
party  de  '  'lorn  hope.'  Who  should  jine  one  ob  dese  'lorn 
hopes  but  Capting  Saville,  '  Come  back, '  saj's  Kunnel  De 
Fleury  ;  'Come  back,*  says  Gin'ral  Wayne;  '  you'se  no 
bizness  dar.'  '  I'll  'beyde  lieutenant  in  command,  and  will 
disconsortno  un, '  says  Saville,  an*  away  he  goes  up  de  steep 
hill  wid  de  'lorn  hope. 

'*  I  wanted  ter  see  it  out ;  but  I  wasn't  'sessed,  like  Cap- 
ting  Saville,  ter  get  knocked  on  de  head  ;  so  I  crep  around 
one  side,  away  from  bof  de  parties,  kase  I  knowed  de  Red- 
coats wouldn't  fire  whar  no  one  in  'tickler  was  comin'  agin* 
'em,  an'  I  could  see  by  de  flashes  how  tings  was  goin*. 
Gittin'  'round  in  a  safe  place,  while  oders  was  bein'  cracked 
on  de  head,  was  de  difference  between  havin'  strc^^edy  an' 
not  havin'  strc^edy." 

"  But  Captain  Saville,"  cried  Vera,  seizing  his  arm ; 
*'  what  became  of  him  ?" 

The  sharp  interruption,  and  Vera's  bloodless,  agonized 
lace,  checked  Pompey's  historic  flow  of  thought,  and  sug- 
gested a  new  and  quite  distinct  idea  to  him. 

"Law  sakes,  missy,"  he  began,  "I  didn't  know  you 
cared  in  'tickler  'bout  him.     Tascar,  you  orter — '* 

"  Speak,  man  !"  she  said,  with  an  importunity  that  was 
almost  fierce.  "  Was  Captain  Saville  wounded?  w^  he — 
O  God  !  I  cannot  utter  that  word  1" 

"  Missy  Vera,  Capting  Saville's  safe  at  West  Point  I 
aeed  him  yesterday.  He  wasn't  hurt,  dough  it  'pears  like 
as  if  he  tried  to  be,"  said  Tascar  hastily. 

**  Ab  1  thank  God  1  another  awful  danger  is  past.     PlcMC 


380  NEAR    TO  NATURE  S  HEART. 

hasten  your  story,  for  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  of  these  awful 
scenes. ' ' 

"  I'se  near  through,  missy,  for  what  happened  arter  whar 
I  lef  off  all  seemed  to  be  in  a  minute.  Our  folks  went  up 
de  hill  as  still  Hke  as  if  dey  was  ghosts.  On  a  sudden  dey 
come  on  de  Red  coats,  an'  dey  fired  on  our  men,  but  no 
flashes  came  from  our  side.  I  was  tole  dat  dare  wasn't  a 
loaded  musket  'mong  de  'Mericans,  an'  I  tinks  it  was  so  ; 
for  dey  jes'  put  dere  bay' nets  in  front  an'  run  for'ud  like 
mad.  In  a  minute  de  'lorn  hope  nex'  me  was  cuttin'  away 
de  'batis,  or  big,  ugly  fence.  De  place  dat  was  so  still  as  if 
dey  was  all  sleepin'  became  full  of  drefful  sounds.  De 
drums  beat  de  long  roll,  de  ossifers  was  a-shoutin'  '  To 
arms  !  to  arms  !'  de  cannons  began  to  beller,  and  dey  filled 
dem  wid  grape-shot,  an'  all  de  Britishers  was  a-firin'  dare 
muskets  fas'  as  dey  could  load.  It  'peared  to  me  dat  ebery 
un  s>b  our  folks  would  be  killed  twice  ober.  A  minute  later 
I  seed  Capting  Saville,  by  de  light  ob  a  big  flash,  jump  on 
an'  ober  de  'batis,  a-cuttin'  an'  a-slashin*  wid  his  sword. 
Away  went  a  crowd  ob  our  sogers  arter  him.  In  less  time 
dan  I  kin  tell  you  our  two  parties  come  togedder,  kerslap, 
right  in  de  middle  ob  de  fort.  Dey  hauled  down  de  flag  ; 
dey  stuck  ebery  'un  dat  was  oncivil —  Well,  Mas'r  Brown, 
ter  make  a  long  story  short,  dey  jes'  picked  up,  on  de  p'ints 
ob  dare  bay'nets,  de  fort  dat  I  had  already  got  for  'em  by 
my  strogedy.  But,  Missy  Vera,  if  Capting  Saville  is  a  friend 
ob  your'n,  you  orter  look  arter  him,  kase  he  can't  do  what 
he  did  dat  ar  night  twice,  strogedy  or  no  strogedy. ' ' 

Vera  fled  to  her  room. 

Her  father  looked  after  her  with  an  expression  of  deep 
commiseration,  and  having  dismissed  Pompey  with  a  few 
words  of  thanks,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  strode  away  into 
the  forest,  muttering, 

"  The  curse  resting  on  me  will  crush  her  also,  and  seems 


SEEKING  DEATH.  381 

to  be  falling  on  Saville.  His  pride  will  net  permit  him  to 
many  the  daughter  of  such  a  wretch  as  I  am,  and  yet  his 
thwarted  love  makes  life  a  burden  that  he  would  gladly  be 
rid  of.  Oh  !  the  malign  power  of  one  evil  deed  !  Who 
can  tell  when  and  where  its  deadly  influence  will  cease  ?  I 
have  destroyed  myself ;  I  am  destroying  Vera  and  Saville  ; 
my  crime  dug  poor  Esther's  early  grave.  How  many  others 
shall  I  blight  before  the  curse  dies  out  ?  Would  to  God  I 
had  never  been  born  !" 

Note. — A  shrewd  negro  slave,  by  the  name  of  Pompey,  obtained 
the  countersign,  and  guided  the  American  forces  to  the  causeway 
leading  to  Stony  Point,  in  the  manner  described  in  the  foregoing 
chapter.  Ke  belonged  to  Captain  Lamb,  a  staunch  Whig  who  ws» 
skiiKl  in  the  ndghborhoodi 


j83  NEAR    TO  NA  TURE' ^  HEART, 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 


SEEKING   LIFE. 


ON  reaching  the  seclusion  of  her  own  little  closet,  Vers 
did  not  give  way  to  helpless  gnef.  She  recognized 
the  necessity  of  prompt  action.  Saville  must  again  feel  her 
strong  yet  gentle  grasp,  or  he  might  be  lost  to  her  and  to 
himself.  Another  battle  would  soon  occur,  and  another  op- 
portunity for  the  carrying  out  of  his  dreadful  purpc^e.  He 
must  be  shown  at  once  that  such  reckless  exposure  was  a 
virtual  violation  of  his  promise  of  which  her  mother's  ring 
was  the  token.  She  resolved  to  write  to  him  and  appeal  to 
all  the  noble,  generous  traits  which  she  knew  he  poase^ed, 
and  to  chide  him  for  the  unmanly  weakness  which  he  ^r^k 
now  displaying.  She  even  determined  to  risk  the  loss  oS 
her  dearest  treasure,  Washington's  Bible,  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  read  it,  and  be  led  by  its  teachings  to  doubt  the 
skepticism  which  had  so  little  power  to  sustain  and  comfort 
Thus,  she  was  a  sleepless  watcher  through  the  night,  often 
writing  earnestly  and  rapidly,  and  again  thinking  long  and 
deeply  between  the  sentences  of  the  following  letter  : 

"  Theron,  my  more  than  brother,  have  I  lost  my  influ- 
ence over  you  ?  The  fear  that  I  have  adds  greatly  to  a  bur- 
den that  is  already  too  heavy.  Your  influence  over  me  loses 
none  of  its  power.  It  would  be  hard  for  me  to  say  when 
the  thought  of  you  is  absent  from  my  mind.     The  greatest 


SEEKING  LIFE.  Z^l 

sacrifice  you  could  ask  would  be  a  joy  did  not  conscience 
'  forbid.  Theron,  I  am  trying  very  hard  to  do  right.  There 
are  many  days  in  which  I  can  only  cling  desperately  to  God's 
hand  ;  but  He  has  sustained  me  in  a  manner  so  wonderful 
that  my  confidence  in  Him,  not  myself,  is  continually  in- 
creasing. He  is  very  gentle  and  patient  with  me  also,  for 
He  knows  I  am  a  '  bruised  reed. ' 

But,  Theron,   you  are  making  my  burden  heavier  than 
I   can   bear,    even  with   God's  compassionate  help.     You 
know  well  that  in  my  shadowed  life  I  have  become  acquaint- 
ed with  suffering,  and  yet  never  before  have  I  endured  such 
agony  as   pierced   my  heart  to-day.     You  are  the  cause. 
Theron,  in  every  unordered,  uncalled-for,  reckless  step  you 
took,  in  the  attack  on  Stony  Point,  you  trod  upon  my  heart. 
When  you  are  called  upon  to  face  danger  by  just  authority, 
do  your  duty,  and  your  whole  duty,  as  I  am  asking  God  to 
help  me  do  mine,  in  the  face  of  a  temptation  that  assails  me 
relentlessly  and   almost   continuously.     I    say   this   much, 
though  well  a'.s-are  that  if  you   receive  wounds,  I  shall  be 
more  sorely  wounded,  and  that  if  you  are  killed,  it  will  be 
worse  than  death  to  me.     But,  did  duty  compel  you  to  take 
part  in  that  desperate  midnight  assault .?     Was  it  love  of 
country  that  thrust  you  forward  beyond  the  bravest  who  were 
acting  under  orders }     When    I   pained  and   disappointed 
you,  I  did  so  under  a  compulsion  the  strongest  and  most 
sacred  that  the  human  soul  can  recognize.      Was  your  mo- 
tive in  seeking  death,  that  awful  night,   noble  and  sacred  ? 
Theron,  it  was  the  first  cowardly  act  I   ever   knew  you  to 
commit,  and  it  v,-as  an  act  so  cruel  as  to  be  utterly  unlike 
you.     It  was  an  unmanly  effort  to  escape  from  a  burden 
which  I,  in  case  you  had  accomplished  your  purpose,  would 
have  had  to  bear  alone,  and  which  was  made  infinitely  greater 
by  your  act     Granting  that  your  belief  is  true,  and  that 
death   is   dreamless  sleep,  can  you   long  for  a  rest  which 


S84  NEAR   TO  NATURE* S  HEART. 

means  unspeakable  agony  for  me  ?  I  do  not  say  it  boast^ 
ingly,  but  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  I  could  welcome 
pain,  loss,  disaster,  anything  save  sin,  which  would  bring 
you  rest  You  should  be  stronger  and  braver  than  I.  Why 
are  you  not  ?  Theron,  there  must  be  something  wrong  in 
your  philosophy  when  a  man  naturally  as  noble  and  good 
as  you  are  sinks,  fails,  and  is  overborne ;  and  if  your  phi- 
losophy cannot  sustain  one  peculiarly  strong  and  favored 
like  yourself,  of  what  use  would  it  be  to  average  humanity  ? 
How  utterly  it  would  fail  the  weak  and  tempted  !  But  my 
feith  in  God  sustains  even  me  in  as  sore  a  stress,  I  think,  as 
ever  a  woman  was  called  to  endure.  It  sustained  my  dear 
mother,  and  you  know  how  sad  her  lot  was  in  so  many  re- 
spects. If  your  creed  cannot  make  a  strong,  noble  man 
like  yourself  brave  and  patient,  it  is  so  poor  that  I  am  sure 
it  is  unfounded. 

"  Theron,  I  know  you  honestly  think  you  are  right,  but 
are  you  sure  you  have  full  reason  to  think  so.  Pardon  me 
if  I,  in  love  and  sympathy,  touch  for  a  moment  on  your 
past  experience.  You  once  believed  that  the  woman  who 
is  your  wife  was  worthy  of  your  affection.  You  assumed 
that  she  was,  and  acted  honestly  and  naturally  in  view  of 
your  beliei  If  you  had  studied  her  character  carefully  and 
patiently,  you  would  have  found  that  you  were  mistaken. 
Forgive  me  for  saying  it,  Theron  ;  but  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  any  view,  creed,  or  philosophy  which  can  permit  you 
to  make  a  cowardly  flight  from  life's  burden,  from  the  duties 
you  owe  to  your  mother  and  country,  is  equally  unworthy 
of  respect  We  are  now,  as  it  were,  meeting  the  same  cruel 
misfortune  side  by  side.  Will  you  run  away  and  leave  me 
to  suSer  it  all  alone  ? 

"  I  have  a  favor  to  ask.  Your  response  will  show  whether 
I  have  still  any  influence  over  you,  and  whether  you  will  do 
»  comparatively  little  thing  for  one  who  will  do  for  yov 


SEEKING  LIFE.  3^5 

everything  in  her  power  save  that  which  is  wrong,  I  Hstened 
patiently  to  all  your  arguments,  and  I  tried  very  hard  to  be- 
lieve them.  Oh  !  how  I  wished  that  I  could  think  as  you 
did  ;  but  I  had  known  and  seen  the  power  of  God's  living 
truth,  and  it  was  impossible.  Will  you  in  fairness  honestly 
consider  the  grounds  of  my  faith  ?  As  a  proof  of  my  all- 
absorbing  interest  in  you,  I  send  the  dearest  thing  I  have, 
Washington's  Bible,  with  the  one  request  that  you  read  it 
through,  patiently  and  thoughtfully,  and  that  you  dwell 
especially  on  the  New  Testament.  I  suppose  that  there  are 
wise  men  who  could  argue  with  you  and  tell  you  something 
about  the  Bible,  how  it  was  written,  and  why  people  think 
it  is  God's  Word  ;  but  I  do  not  ask  you  to  seek  them.  I 
only  ask  that  you  sit  down  by  yourself,  and,  putting  aside  all 
prejudice,  that  you  read  this  Bible  with  the  candor  and  sin- 
cerity which  have  always  been  among  your  noblest  traits. 
I  feel  sure  the  book  will  make  its  own  impression,  and  con- 
tain all  the  arguments  that  are  needed.  I  leave  the  issue 
with  God,  to  whom  I  pray  in  your  behalf  more  often  than 
in  my  own.  I  hope  my  pencilings  here  and  there  will  not 
mar  the  pages  for  you. 

"  Theron,  is  my  mother's  ring  still  on  your  finger?  It 
means  now  all  that  it  did  when  I  placed  it  there.  But  you 
made  a  promise  then  as  truly  as  I  did.  Do  not  keep  its  let- 
ter but  break  its  spirit.     Farewell. 

"Vera." 

Early  the  next  morning  she  summoned  Tascar,  and 
giving  him  the  letter  and  package  containing  the  book, 
said,  with  a  decision  which  he  could  not  fail  to  under- 
stand, 

"  Find  Mr.  Saville,  and  give  him  these  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. Mark  my  words,  Tascar,  find  him.  Go  to  him  wher- 
ever he  is,  and  give  this  letter  and  book  into  his  own  handi ; 


S86  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEAR7\ 

remember,  his  own  hands.  There  is  money.  If  need  be, 
travel  days  and  weeks  till  you  find  him,  I  must  take  no 
risks  in  this  matter.     Wait  for  his  answer. ' ' 

Having  done  her  part,  Vera  was  able,  more  calmly  and 
trustingly,  to  leave  the  result  in  God's  hands, 

Tascar  reached  West  Point  at  about  noon,  and  found  Sa- 
ville  in  his  quarters.  His  gloomy  face  lighted  up  as  he  saw 
the  boy. 

' '  Missy  Vera  tole  me  to  give  you  dese,  an'  wait  for  an 
answer." 

Saville  eagerly  took  the  missive  and  package,  and  shut- 
ting himself  up  in  a  small  room  back  of  the  main  one, 
opened  the  letter  with  a  hand  that  now  trembled  as  it  never 
had  in  the  shock  of  battle.  He  soon  reappeared  with  a 
note  in  his  hand,  and  said  to  Tascar,  who  had  zealously 
complied  with  the  request  that  he  should  eat  the  untasted 
dinner  on  the  table, 

"  Take  this  to  your  mistress,  and  come  to  me  again  in  a 
week,  for  I  shall  have  something  to  send  to  her." 

'*  Did  you  find  him  ?"  asked  Vera,  surprised  at  his 
speedy  return. 

"  Yes,  Missy  Vera,  an'  here  is  what  he  guv  me." 

Vera  hastened  to  her  room,  tore  open  the  note,  and,  with 
tears  of  joy,  read  as  follows  : 

"  My  loyal  Vera,  I  have  read  your  letter,  and  am  over- 
whelmed with  shame  and  self-contempt.  How  strong  you 
are  I  How  weak  I  have  been  1  If  I  am  not  a  man  after 
this,  let  even  my  memory  perish.  I  now  promise  you  to 
keep  the  spirit  of  my  pledge.  If  anything  happens  to  me, 
I't  will  be  in  the  performance  of  what  you  even  would  es- 
teem— duty.  And,  Vera,  1  will  even  read  the  book  which 
has  broken  my  heart  and  blighted  my  life,  in  separating 
you  from  me.     I  cannot  now  trust  myself  to  say  anything 


SEEKING  LIFE.  3^7 

more.     You   are  as  much  above  and  beyond  me  as  your 
fancied  heaven  is  above  the  earth. 

"  Yours,  to  command  henceforth, 

"  Saville." 

The  long,  dark  night  was  passing,  and  Vera  saw  in  these 
few  words  the  faint  dawning  of  hope. 

Did  her  pencilings  mar  the  pages  of  the  little  Bible  ?  Sa- 
ville, on  his  return  to  his  quarters  that  evening,  turned  at 
first  only  to  such  pages,  and  to  the  words  indicated,  which 
were  thus  made  to  seem  as  if  spoken  directly  to  him  by  the 
maiden. 

One  text  struck  him  with  peculiar  force,  in  the  circum- 
stances. It  was  heavily  marked,  and  Vera  had  written  under 
it,  "May  not  this  be  true.?"  It  was,  "There  is  a  way 
which  seemeth  right  unto  a  man,  but  the  end  thereof  are  the 
ways  of  death." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  I  am  mistaken  ?' '  he  asked  himself 
for  the  first  time.  "  At  any  rate,  I  shall  be  more  bigoted 
than  the  bigots  themselves  if  I  do  not  accede  to  Vera's  re- 
quest, and  give  her  side  a  careful,  unprejudiced  hear- 
ing." 

Saville  was  too  honest  a  man  to  bestow  on  Washington's 
Bible  a  careless,  hasty  perusal  ;  and  he  was  too  large- na- 
tured  and  fair  to  read  it  with  his  mind  steeled  against  its 
truth  by  dislike,  contempt,  or  the  pride  of  preconceived 
opinion.  It  was  his  sincere  intention  to  be  receptive,  judi- 
cial, and  let  the  book  speak  for  itself,  according  to  its  capa- 
bility. 

Some  things  in  Vera's  letter  strongly  tended  to  promote  a 
condition  o!  mind  favorable  to  the  reception  of  the  truth. 
Her  reference  to  the  blindness  which  he  had  shown,  at  first, 
to  the  character  of  his  wife,  made  him  wince,  but  the  effect 
was  wholesome.     He  certainly  had  been  mistaken  then  in 


3B8  NEAR    TO   NAIJRE'S  HEART. 

a  matter  of  vital  importance,  and  how  disastrous  had  been 
the  consequences  ! 

"  If  Vera  is  right,  and  this  book  is  true  ;  if  I  am  mistaken 
again,"  he  thought,  "  the  evil  will  be  without  remedy.  If 
death  is  not  a  dreamless  sleep,  but  rather  an  eternal,  wak- 
ing consciousness  of  all  that  one  has  lost ;  if  there  is  the 
faintest  possibility  of  this,  I  had  better  consider  it  at 
once." 

He  moreover  felt  that  he  had  justified  Vera's  contempt  for 
his  philosophy.  What  had  it  done  for  him,  save  to  prompt 
to  unmanly,  cowardly  action  ?  Her  faith,  in  contrast,  had 
sustained  her  in  patient,  heroic  endurance.  He  was  hum- 
bled, and  truth  is  ever  ready  to  be  the  guest  of  humility. 

It  does  not  come  within  the  scope  of  this  story  to  follow 
closely  his  mental  changes  during  the  days  and  weeks  that 
followed.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  grasp  of  the  Divine 
mind  upon  his  grew  continually  more  masterful  and  firm. 
The  Bible,  as  Vera  said,  did  prove  itself,  as  it  ever  does  to 
the  candid  reader  ;  as  it  ever  does  to  those  who  are  not  ab- 
sorbed in  their  own  little  'isms,  or  befogged  by  their  own 
pet  theories,  or  intrenched  in  opinions  already  formed.  Few 
of  the  Bible's  opponents  have  ever  followed  the  example  of 
Saville,  for  he  permitted  the  book  to  do  all  it  could  with 
him. 

"  My  reason,"  he  often  resolved,  "  shall  be  like  a  judge 
upon  the  bench,  and  neither  pride,  prejudice,  my  wishes, 
nor  an  unfair  hearing,  shall  bribe  or  dispose  it  to  a  false  de- 
cision. 

As  he  read  and  carefully  re-read  the  book,  and  at  last  was 
able  to  grasp,  to  some  extent,  its  scope  and  meaning  ;  as  he 
discovered  its  wonderful  unity  in  the  seeming  'diversity  ;  as 
he  saw  that  the  verbal  husk  in  the  early  parts  of  the  Old 
Testament  had  a  kernel  of  rich,  spiritual  meaning,  and  that 
the  New  Testament  clearly  taught  a  philosophy  too  lofty  for 


SEEKING  LIFE.  389 

a  merely  human  origin,  he  gradually  became  convinced  that 
there  was  a  God,  and  that  the  Bible  was  His  guiding  word 
to  His  earthly  children.  The  "  Man  of  Sorrows"  fascinated 
him  with  irresistible  power,  and  he  followed  Him  in  all  His 
patient  journeying  through  Palestine,  wondering,  fearing, 
hoping,  but  unhealed. 

With  the  conviction  of  the  Bible's  truth,  a  distress  of 
mind,  such  as  he  had  never  known  before,  began  to  develop 
itsell  How  must  the  all-powerful  and  holy  God  regard  him, 
who  had  so  arrogantly,  and  with  so  little  proof  and  reason, 
assumed  that  His  Word  was  a  myth,  and  Himself  a  fiction 
of  the  superstitious  ?  And  when  he  thought  how  he  had 
tempted  Vera,  and  caused  her  to  waver  in  her  faith,  he  was 
ready  to  despair. 

' '  What  have  I  learned  from  the  Bible  ?' '  he  exclaimed 
one  day,  in  agony,  "  save  that  I  am  justly  and  irretrievably 
lost.  I  now  know  what  poor,  tempted  Vera  meant  when 
she  trembled  at  the  words,  '  A  certain  fearful  looking  for  of 
judgment'  " 

As  early  as  possible,  after  receiving  the  Bible  Vera  had 
sent  him,  Saville  had  procured  another,  which  he  sent  out 
to  her  by  Tascar,  as  he  had  promised.  While  Vera  welcomed 
this  gift  as  a  proof  that  he  was  relenting  in  his  bitter  hostil- 
ity to  the  book,  she  was  left  in  ignorance  of  the  radical 
changes  taking  place  in  his  mind.  Saville  did  not  wish  to 
commit  himself  until  fully  convinced.  But  when,  after  in- 
tellectual conviction,  he  commenced  drawing  practical  in- 
ferences from  its  truth,  and  saw  the  fate  which  threatened 
him  ;  when  his  awakened  and  instructed  conscience  revealed 
to  him  that  the  penalty  of  sin  is  not  arbitrary  and  externally 
imposed,  but  inevitable  and  natural,  in  the  one  sinning, 
from  the  very  law  and  principle  of  creation  ;  the  man  was 
overwhelmed  with  rational  fear.  The  dark  question,  which 
all  the  penances  of  the  Romish  Church,  and  the  cruelties  oi 


390  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

superstition,  have  vainly  tried  to  answer,  rose  for  his  per- 
sonal  solution,  How  shall  I  be  rid  of  my  sin  ? 

Only  the  flippant  and  shallow-minded  make  light  of  this 
question,  and  they  but  for  a  brief  time.  The  student  of 
history  and  humanity  knows  that  it  has  been  the  burden  of 
the  heart  among  all  races  and  in  every  age  ;  and  that  to-day 
men  are  inflicting  upon  themselves  inconceivable  suffering  in 
the  vain  hope  of  answering  it. 

Saville  had  learned  from  the  Bible  only  part  of  the  truth. 
He  saw  what  evil  was  and  what  it  involved  ;  but  he  had  not 
yet  discovered  the  remedy,  which  is  usually  overlooked  at 
first  from  its  very  simplicity. 

His  despairing  self-condemnation  became  so  great  that  he 
determined  to  write  to  Vera,  and  see  if  she  could  not  give 
him  some  clue  of  hope.  So,  one  day  several  weeks  after 
the  time  he  had  commenced  reading  the  Bible,  at  her  re- 
quest, he  wrote  the  following  brief  letter,  knowing  that 
he  would  soon  have  an  opportunity  of  sending  it  out  to 
the  cabin  by  Tascar,  who  was  often  down  to  the  garri- 
son. 

"  My  faithful  Vera,  I  fear  the  gift  of  the  Bible,  which  cost 
you  so  much  to  send,  but  which  I  tried  to  make  good  by 
sending  another,  has  been  but  of  little  service  to  me.  Will 
you  be  full  of  joy  when  I  tell  you  that  I  believe  it  to  be  the 
true  Word  of  the  all-powerful  God  ?  Can  you  be,  when 
you  remember  the  doom  which  this  Bible  pronounces  on 
me  who  so  long  scoffed  at  it,  and  (what  is  far  worse  to  me) 
who  tempted  you  ?  I  am  no  longer  in  the  darkness  of  un- 
belief, but  stand  in  the  searching,  consuming  light  of  God's 
truth,  trembling  at  the  thought  that  I  have  lost  myself — that 
I  have  lost  you — forever.  Is  there  no  remedy  }  In  my  de- 
spair I  turn  to  you,  the  one  I  have  wronged  most. 

"  Saville.'* 


SEEKI.YG  LIFE.  39I 

"  Mas'r  Saville  looked  sick,"  said  Tascar,  as  he  gave  the 
letter  to  Vera,  one  evening. 

In  a  few  moments  Vera  came  to  the  cabin  door  again  and 
summoned  Tascar.  The  boy  thought  the  expression  of 
her  face  indicated  that  something  unusual  v/ould  be  required, 
and  he  was  prepared  for  th  t  request. 

"  Tascar,  ^vill  you  go  to  West  Point  for  me  again  to- 
night ?' ' 

"  Yes,  Missy  Vera,  if  it!s  anyting  'tickler." 

"  Give  that  letter  to  Mr.  Saville,  and  you  won't  be  sorry 
for  the  trouble  it  costs  you.     I  will  reward  you." 

Late  in  the  evening,  Saville  received  a  missive  which  con- 
tained only  these  words  : 

"  Theron,  I  wish  to  see  you.  Come  to  the  place  where 
we  parted  on  the  hill-side,  the  first  evening  your  duties  will 
permit.  Vera." 

He  briefly  wrote  in  reply,  "  I  will  come  to-morrow  even- 
ing.     How  faithful  you  are  !" 

He  put  a  broad  piece  of  gold  in  the  wearied  messenger's 
hand,  and  said, 

"  Keep  that  yourself,  Tascar." 

It  was  with  feelings  diflScult  to  be  described  that  Saville 
looked  down  into  the  wild,  secluded  glen  once  more.  Over 
a  year  had  passed  since  he  had  seen  it,  or  its  inmates.  The 
mellow  autumn  sunlight  shimmered  through  the  trees  and 
upon  the  rocks,  softening  the  rugged  wildness  of  the  scene. 
But  in  its  dreariest  wintry  garb  it  would  be  the  one  attractive 
spot  of  earth  to  him. 

"  Will  Vera  be  much  changed  ?''  he  had  asked  himself 
again  and  again.  Ages  seemed  to  have  passed  since  he  had 
seen  her. 

He  could  not  surprise  her  now.     She  was  waiting  for  him. 


392  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

with  her  hand  upon  her  side,  as  was  her  custom  when  deep 
leehng  caused  her  heart  to  flutter  too  strongly.  To  one 
watching  them  from  a  little  distance  their  meeting  would 
have  appeared  very  quiet  and  undemonstrative  ;  but  to  each 
other,  trembling  hands  and  moistened  eyes  revealed  the 
depths  of  feeling  in  reserve. 

"  You  are  pale  and  thin,  Theron,"  said  Vera,  her  tears 
gathering  visibly. 

"These  are  the  least  of  my  troubles,"  he  replied,  half 
smiling.  "  I  dreaded  lest  you  had  become  shadowy  and 
spirit-like  under  the  discipline  of  sorrow.  Since  I  have  come 
to  believe  there  is  a  heaven,  I  have  been  constantly  wonder- 
ing why  you  are  not  taken  there  at  once.  But  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  you  have  become  womanly  during  this  long 
year,  rather  than  angelic. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  she  answered,  trying  to 
smile  also  ;  ' '  for  the  reason  that  I  am  a  woman,  if  for  no 
other.     I  have  no  desire  to  be  anything  else  at  present." 

"  Vera,"  he  could  not  forbear  saying,  "  I  did  not  know 
that  faith  and  sorrow  could  make  a  human  face  so  beauti- 
ful." 

She  could  not  have  been  a  woman  did  not  a  smile  of  pleas- 
ure illumine  her  face  now.  Almost  instantly  it  was  fol- 
lowed by  an  expression  of  deep  pain,  and  she  turned  away 
for  a  moment. 

He  understood  her  ;  she  could  not  drink  at  the  ever-full 
fountain  of  his  love  and  admiration,  though  the  waters  were 
so  sweet. 

But  when  she  turned  to  him  again,  there  was  no  prudish 
restraint  in  her  manner.  She  took  tiis  hand  as  a  sister  might 
do,  and  said, 

' '  Theron,  I  want  to  help  you.  You  as  yet  only  believe 
the  poorest  and  most  meagre  part  of  God's  truth." 

He  looked  at  her  with  some  surprise,  and  said, 


SEEKTXG  LIFE.  393 

"  Why,  Vera,  I  now  believe  the  Bible  as  it  reads  substan- 
tially. I  admit  that  there  is  much  that  I  do  not  understand, 
and  cannot  reconcile.  It  grows  clearer,  however,  as  I  study 
it  The  difficulty  in  understanding  it  all  is  an  argument  in 
its  favor.  It's  a  revelation  of  an  infinite  mind  ;  mine  is 
finite.  If  I  could  grasp  the  whole  book,  I  should  say  at 
once,  '  It  is  the  work  of  human  intellects  like  my  own.'  " 

' '  The  simple  parts  are  those  which  you  do  not  believe. 
You  do  not  understand  the  parts  that  mother  taught  me 
when  I  ^vas  a  little  child." 

"  Then  teach  me  as  if  I  were  a  child." 

"  How  strange  that  you  should  say  that !  It's  a  good 
omen.  Read  those  words."  And  she  pointed  out  the  fol- 
lowing text  in  the  Bible  he  had  given  her  : 

"  Verily  I  say  unto  you,  whosoever  shall  not  receive  the 
Kingdom  of  God  as  a  little  child  shall  in  no  wise  enter 
therein. ' ' 

' '  We  must  come  to  the  point,  Theron,  of  believing  what 
our  Heavenly  Father  says,  with  the  trust  of  a  little  child." 

"  But  what  does  the  Bible  say  of  those  who  offend,  or 
cause  one  of  God's  little  ones  to  offend?  How  sorely  I 
tempted  you.  Vera,"   and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  But  you  have  no  wish  to  make  me  offend  now  i" 

' '  No.  Whatever  becomes  of  me,  I  shall  thank  God  that 
He  preserved  you." 

' '  Can  you  not  see  what  a  difference  this  fact  makes  ? 
Besides,  you  did  not  deliberately  and  consciously  tempt  me 
to  evil." 

' '  But  that  made  the  temptation  tenfold  harder  for  you  to 
resist. ' ' 

"  You  were  not  to  blame  for  that.  But  why  dwell  on  the 
unhappy  past  ?  I  said  truly  that  you,  as  yet,  believe  and 
understand  but  the  poorest  part  of  the  Bible.  If  the  Bible 
is  true,  is  not  God  true  f" 


594  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

"Certainly." 

**  Must  He  not  keep  His  word  ?" 

"  Yes." 

' '  Then  listen  :  '  Let  the  wicked  forsake  his  way  and  the 
unrighteous  man  his  thoughts,  and  let  him  return  unto  the 
Lord,  and  He  will  have  mercy  upon  him  ;  and  to  our  God, 
for  He  will  abundantly  pardon,'  You  are  willing  to  forsake 
your  unbelief,  and  all  the  evil  that  grew  naturally  out  of  it." 

"  How  sweetly  those  words  sound  as  you  read  them," 
said  Saville  musingly;  "but  can  God,  consistently  viith 
justice  and  His  threatenings  against  evil,  forgive  my  years  of 
blasphemy,  and  my " 

"  O  Theron  !  surely  He  will  and  can.  Did  He  not 
teach  His  disciples  to  forgive  each  other  seventy  times  seven  ? 
Will  He  do  less?" 

He  looked  at  her  very  earnestly,  and  she  saw  from  the 
expression  of  his  face  that  the  light  was  coming. 

"  Vera,  my  good  angel,  lead  me  on  a  little  further,"  he 
said.  "  Even  if  I  were  forgiven,  it  seems  to  me  the  mem- 
ory of  what  I  have  been  and  what  I  have  done  will  oppress 
me  with  gloom  forever." 

"  Read  those  words,  Theron." 

He  took  her  Bible  and  read,  "  The  next  day  John  seeth 
Jesus  coming  unto  him  and  saith.  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God 
which  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world. 

"  The  Bible  also  says,"  she  added,  "  '  The  blood  of  Jesus 
Christ  cleanseth  us  from  all  sin.'  " 

"  Where  is  that?" 

She  showed  him. 

"Theron,"  she  said  tearfully,  "can  you  remember  the 
scenes  of  Calvary  and  doubt  God's  love  ?  That  is  the  part 
of  the  Bible  you  don' t  understand  and  believe.  You  never 
can  understand  God,  or  this.  His  book,  until  you  make 
these  words  the  key  to  all,  '  God  is  love. '     I  shall  test  you 


SEEKING  UFB,  395 

now  whether  you  believe  the  Bible  or  not,"  and  she  repeat- 
ed earnestly  these  words  : 

"  If  we  confess  our  sins,  He  is  faithful  and  just  to  forgive 
as  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse  us  from  all  unrighteousness." 

"  There  is  no  escape  here,  Theron.  It's  either  God  is 
true,  or  He  is  not  true,  and  will  not  keep  His  word.  You 
have  acknowledged  your  sin  with  grief  and  sorrow,  and  you 
have  no  wish  to  continue  in  it.  With  this  clear  promise 
before  you,  what  must  be  your  inevitable  conclusion  ?  Ah, 
Theron  I  I  read  your  answer  in  your  face.  You  take  God 
at  His  word.  You  believe.  Can  any  happiness  of  heaven 
surpass  this  moment  ?' ' 

*'  O  God  !"  he  said,  in  a  low,  deep  tone,  "  I  thank  Thee 
for  mercy  which  is  as  boundless  as  Thyself !" 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  once,  Theron,  that  Shakspeare 
echoed  the  Bible  ?     He  writes  thus  of  mercy,  you  remember  : 

'  It  is  twice  bless'd  ; 
II  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes  : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest.' 

"  I  believe  that  God  finds  more  joy  in  showing  you  mercy, 
than  you  in  receiving  it." 

' '  I  can  almost  believe  it, ' '  he  said  ;  "for  the  Being  I 
dreaded  inexpressibly  an  hour  ago  now  seems  the  source  and 
fountain  of  tenderness.  O  Vera  1"  he  added,  with  an  ex- 
pression which  warmed  her  heart,  and  cheered  her  through 
the  long,  lonely  years  that  followed,  **  I  am  glad  to  owe 
heaven  to  you.  This  is  better  than  saving  me  from  death 
in  Fort  Clinton.     I  can  wait  patiently  now. ' ' 

An  hour  flew  by  and  another  like  brief  moments.  The 
full  moon  filled  the  wild  gorge  with  beautiful  lights  and 
shadows  ;  but  they  were  too  deeply  absorbed  to  heed  the 
witchery  of  nature. 

At  last  Saville  reluctantly  rose  to  go.     "  No  ;  I  will  not 


396  NEAR    TO  NATURE:S  HEART. 

go  to  the  cabin,"  he  said.  "  After  these  words  to  you  J 
wish  to  speak  to  no  other  human  being  to-day." 

He  then  commenced  looking  for  something  on  thf 
ground,  and  said, 

"  Where  was  it  that  I,  in  my  wicked  passion,  trod  that 
ring  into  the  earth  ?' ' 

"  Here,  Theron,"  said  "Vera  promptly.  "  I  have  watch- 
ed the  place  ever  since  as  if  it  were  a  little  grave." 

He  soon  recovered  it,  and  taking  her  hand,  said  hesitat- 
ingly, 

' '  Vera,  can  you  not  wear  this  ring  as  a  token  of  my 
boundless  gratitude  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  Theron." 

"  It  is  tarnished  and  warped  like  myself." 

*'  But  it's  made  of  gold,  Theron,  gold  that  has  been  tri«d 
in  the  fire." 

"  This  is  a  very  different  parting  from  our  last,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment ;  "  and  we  now  have  the  earnest  in  our 
hearts  that  the  time  will  come  when  these  sad  farewells  shall 
cease.  Good-by.  Good-by  once  more,  my  true,  loyal 
Vera.     I  will  watch  till  I  see  you  enter  the  cabin  door." 

* '  Theron,  you  never  made  me  so  happy  before.  Good- 
by." 

He  watched  her  as  she  passed  through  the  alternate  light 
and  shadow  that  fell  upon  the  path.  He  saw  the  flutter  of 
her  handkerchief  as  she  waved  him  a  farewell  at  the  cabin 
door,  but  still  he  did  not  go.  The  dawn  was  tinging  the 
sky  before  he  could  bring  himself  to  leave  the  place  where 
heaven  had  opened  to  him  in  the  stony  desert  of  his  despair. 


A  MYSTERY  SOLVED— CiEAT  CHANGES.     397 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

A   MYSTERY   SOLVED — GREAT   CHANGES. 

ON  the  day  following  his  visit  to  the  mountain  valley, 
Saville  received  orders  which  occasioned  one  of  those 
sudden  changes  that  are  characteristic  of  military  life  ;  for 
he  was  directed  to  report  as  soon  as  possible  at  Charleston, 
South  Carolina.  He  wrote  quite  a  long  letter  to  Vera,  in 
which  he  recognized  the  kind  Providence  which  had  brought 
about  his  new  and  happy  belief  and  feelings  before  this  wide 
separation  took  place. 

"  I  must  go  this  very  day,"  he  wrote,  "  for  my  orders 
are  urgent.  Your  promptness  gave  me  our  interview  last 
evening,  and  the  peace,  hope,  and  faith  which  grew  out  of 
it.  I  now  feel  that  my  feet  are  on  the  rock.  Vera,  and  no 
distance,  time,  or  disaster  can  finally  separate  me  f^om  you. 
How  much  I  owe  to  you  !" 

The  winter  of  1 779-80  was  one  of  unprecedented  severity. 
Even  the  great  bay  of  New  York  was  frozen  over,  and  the 
British  ships  were  ice-bound  at  their  anchorage.  If  Wash- 
ington's army  had  been  strong  and  thoroughly  equipped, 
he  could  have  attacked  the  men-of-war  as  if  they  were  inland 
fortresses.  New  York  city  was  no  longer  on  an  island,  and 
the  heaviest  artillery  could  approach  it  on  every  side.  Gen- 
eral Knyphausen,  in  command,  was  greatly  alarmed,  appre- 
hending that  Washington  would  attempt  a  coup  de  main,  and 
he  made  extraordinary  efforts  to  secure  himself  against  a  sud- 
den attack  from  the  Continentals.     But  Washington's  troops 


398  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

were  half  naked,  shivering,  and  starving  among  the  snow-clad 
hills  of  Morristown.  For  weeks  at  a  time  the  whole  army 
was  on  half  allowance,  and  this  at  a  period  when  the  intense 
cold  made  generous  diet  most  necessary. 

•'  For  a  fortnight  past,"  Washington  wrote  on  the  8th  of 
January,  "  the  troops,  both  officers  and  men,  have  been  al- 
most perishing  with  want.  Yet,"  adds  he,  feelingly,  "  they 
have  borne  their  sufferings  with  a  patience  that  merits  the 
approbation,  and  ought  to  excite  the  sympathies,  of  their 
countrymen." 

In  addition  to  all  other  horrors,  the  loathsome  disease  of 
small  pox  became  epidemic,  and  often  there  was  not  even  a 
blanket  with  which  to  cover  a  sick  and  dying  man.  Thus 
the  Continental  army  could  scarcely  keep  soul  and  body  to- 
gether, much  less  strike  vigorous  blows  at  their  ice-bound 
enemies,  who  were  at  least  comfortably  housed  and  well 
fed. 

In  this  dark  hour  Washington  entreated  Heaven  continu- 
ally in  behalf  of  his  country.  *  He  was  often  seen  bowing 
in  prayer  in  some  retired  place  of  the  forest,  and  it  is  rational 
to  believe  that  we  witness  the  answer  to  his  petitions  in  his 
sublime  and  more  than  human  fortitude. 

Had  such  a  winter  occurred  at  the  time  when  Vera  was 
chiefly  dependent  upon  her  own  exertions,  it  might  have 
been  fatal  to  her  and  all  the  inmates  of  the  cabin.  It  cer- 
tainly would  have  been  so,  in  the  condition  in  which  Saville 
found  them  in  the  autumn  following  the  burning  of  their 
first  home.  But  his  forethought  and  liberality,  and  the 
labors  of  Tascar,  had  provided  against  such  an  emergency, 
and  though  she  and  her  father  suffered  somewhat  from  the 

*  A  soldier  in  the  regiment  of  which  the  writer  was  chaplain  dur- 
ing the  late  war,  stated  that  his  grandfather  had  seen  Washington 
at  prayer,  in  the  woods  near  his  quarters  at  Morristown,  more 
than  once. 


A  MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT  CHANGES.     399 

cold  during  this  interminable  winter,  they  had  food  in 
abundance. 

It  passed  away  at  last,  and  spring  brought  another  long 
campaign,  during  which  she  heard  from  Saville  but  very 
seldom. 

Another  winter  and  summer  passed,  and  there  were  long, 
anxious  intervals,  with  no  tidings  from  the  South.  Letters 
were  rare  and  uncertain  luxuries  in  those  days. 

At  last  the  thrill  of  joy  which  went  through  the  land  at  the 
surrender  of  Lord  Comwallis  at  Yorktown  was  felt,  even  in 
the  secluded  mountain  cabin.  Tascar,  half  wild  with  excite- 
ment, brought  the  news  from  West  Point  Vera  was  pro- 
foundly thankful,  as  the  event  promised  to  hasten  the  day  of 
peace  ;  while  her  father  was  more  elated  than  he  had  ever 
been  before  with  the  hope  that  he  would  soon  be,  without 
doubt,  beyond  British  law.  As  the  war  continued,  and  the 
colonies  had  maintained  the  struggle  from  year  to  year,  his 
hope  had  gradually  strengthened,  that  even  the  enormous 
power  of  England  might  at  last  be  wearied  into  yielding  the 
liberty  which  her  colonies  claimed.  Under  the  influence  of 
this  hope  he  grew  somewhat  less  moody  and  depressed,  and 
at  times  he  even  tried,  in  a  grim,  poor  way,  to  be  more  com- 
panionable to  Vera,  whom  he  pitied  profoundly  in  her  lone- 
liness. 

In  the  winter  of  178 1-2  a  letter,  that  had  been  long  on 
the  way,  came  from  Saville,  stating  that  he  had  been  wound- 
ed in  the  siege  of  Yorktown,  but  that  he  was  now  out  of 
danger  and  recovering.  It  breathed  the  same  quiet,  hopeful 
spirit  which  had  pervaded  all  his  letters  during  this  long  ab- 
sence.     His  faith  was  strengthening  with  time  and  trial. 

Vera  immediately  wrote  fully  and  feelingly  in  reply,  and 

Surgeon  Jasper,  who  was  still  at  West  Point,  and  a  friend 

that  could  be   depended   upon,   promised   to   make  great 

efforts  to  secure  her  letter  a  sale  transit.     Its  receipt  did 

EoE— VIIT— R 


400  NEAR    TO  NATURE* S  HEART, 

much  to  hasten  Saville's  recovery  ;  but  such  was  the  feeble 
and  exhausted  condition  of  his  system,  that  his  surgeon  in- 
sisted upon  his  remaining  in  the  South  during  the  winter. 

The  spring  of  the  auspicious  year  of  1782  again  clothed 
the  Highlands  with  beauty,  and  rumors  of  peace  were  glad- 
dening the  hearts  of  the  people. 

One  day  Tascar  came  up  from  West  Point  in  an  unusual 
state  of  excitement. 

"  I'se  a-tinkin'.  Missy  Vera,"  he  said,  "  dat  peace  mus' 
hab  come  ober  de  water,  for  dey's  gitting  ready  for  wonder- 
ful doin's  at  de  P'int.  Nebber  see  de  like  afore.  Dey's 
buildin'  a  kind  ob  arbor  wid  trunks  ob  trees,  and  de 
branches  all  twisted  togedder,  and  it's  as  big — why  de  hull 
army  could  git  under  it.  An'  dey  tells  me  dat  dere's 
a-gwine  to  be  a  big  dinner,  an  a  dance,  an'  a  ^  few  de  jq^td,' 
an'  no  end  to  wonderful  tings.  I  seed  Capting  Molly,  too, 
an'  she  said  we  mus'  all  come  down  an'  see,  kase  eberybody 
would  be  dar.  Gin'ral  Washington  and  big  ladies  and 
eberybody  else. " 

Vera  saw  that  her  father  was  as  greatly  interested  as  herself. 

"Do  you  think  that  it  does  mean  peace,  Vera?"  he 
asked. 

*'  We  will  go  and  see." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  cannot " 

' '  Father,  I  am  going,  and  you  would  not  let  me  go 
alone." 

So,  on  the  morning  of  the  31st  of  May,  the  strange  little 
group,  consisting  of  the  tall  and  grizzled  exile,  carrying  his 
long  rifle  ;  his  beautiful  daughter,  with  her  golden  hair  fall- 
ing in  wavy  fullness  far  over  her  shoulders,  and  the  delighted 
Tascar,  who  capered  along  the  path  like  a  frolicsome  span- 
iel, often  exposing  their  basket  of  lunch  to  imminent  danger 
from  his  odd  freaks,  started  for  the  plain  of  West  Point, 
where  the  celebration  was  to  be  held. 


A  MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT  CHANGES.     401 

They  reached  the  vicinity  of  their  old  cabin  during  the 
forenoon,  and  Vera  said, 

"  Father,  we  will  rest  and  eat  our  lunch  by  the  spring 
near  mother's  grave." 

"  Oh,  no,  Vera,  not  there,"  he  answered,  with  a  remorse- 
ful face. 

"Yes,  father,  there.  Mother  is  not  lost  to  us.  She  is 
only  absent  now  ;  but  I  am  sure  she  would  like  us  to  re- 
member her,  and  to  be  near  her  resting-place." 

Ke  yielded.  He  was  forming  the  habit  of  yielding  to  her 
more  and  more,  for,  since  her  will  had  governed,  he  recog- 
nized the  fact  that  he  had  enjoyed  both  security  and  the 
comforts  of  life. 

Vera  left  her  lunch  untasted  for  some  time,  as  she  gazed 
wistfully  around  the  familiar  place,  now  so  changed  in  con- 
sequence of  tije  fort  having  been  built.  With  a  ^^^s^  sense 
of  gratitude  she  saw  that  the  grave  had  not  been  molested 
or  trampled. 

"  I  would  rather  spend  the  day  here,  recalling  the  past/' 
she  said,  as  they  were  preparing  to  leave,  "  than  in  witness- 
ing the  grand  festival.  But  come,  the  longer  I  remain,  the 
harder  it  will  be  to  go." 

' '  O  Esther,  my  wife  !  would  to  God  you  had  seen  these 
better  days,"  sighed  her  father.  "  Would  to  God  you  had 
seen  the  time  when  we  could  begin  to  feel  safe." 

"  She  does  see  it,  father.  I  feel  sure  she  is  rejoicing  in 
everything  that  brings  us  hope  and  joy." 

He  shook  his  head,  but  followed  silently. 

Vera  was  young,  and  still  had  the  keen  interest  of  youth 
in  all  that  was  new,  strange,  and  beautiful  ;  and  her  eyes 
kindled  and  her  face  flushed  with  delight  as  the  wide  plain 
of  West  Point,  lined  with  barracks,  tents,  and  oflScers'  quar- 
ters, all  decorated  with  flags  and  gay  streamers,  opened  be- 
fore her.     Across  this  plain,  groups  of  people,  and  battal- 


402  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

ions  of  soldiers  with  their  weapons  glittering  in  the  bright, 
early  summer  sunlight,  were  moving  in  what  seemed  from 
her  distant  place  oi  observation  to  be  bewildering  confusion. 

The  magnificent  colonnade,  or  arbor,  which  was  built  on 
a  slight  rise  of  ground  in  the  rear  of  Fort  Clinton,  seemed 
to  her  a. structure  more  wonderful  and  beautiful  than  even 
the  imagination  could  create. 

It  was  indeed  one  of  the  most  remarkable  edifices  of  the 
kind  ever  erected,  and  had  required  the  supervising  skill  of 
an  eminent  French  engineer  by  the  name  of  Major  Ville- 
franche,  and  the  labors  of  a  thousand  men  for  over  ten  days. 
It  was  two  hundred  and  twenty  feet  long  and  eighty  feet  wide, 
and  was  composed  of  the  simple  materials  which  the  trees 
in  the  vicinity  afforded.     A  grand  colonnade  of  one  hun- 
dred and  eighteen  pillars,  which  were  simply  the  trunks  of 
tall,  stately  trees,  ran  down  the  center,  and  supported  the 
lofty  roof,  that  was  formed   by  curiously  interwoven  boughs 
and  leafy  branches  ;  the  fragrant  evergreens,  in   which  the 
region  abounds,  being  the  chief  components.      Rafters  sloped 
beneath  this  leafy  canopy  from  the  ridge  to  two  lighter  rows 
of  supporting  pillars  on  either  side,  and  from  these  were  sus- 
pended wreaths  of  evergreens  and  flowers.     The  ends  and 
sides,  up  to  a  lofty  height,  were  left  open,  so  that  the  guests 
could  pass  in  and  out  unimpeded,  and  also  from  every  part 
command  a  view  of  the  plain  and  surrounding  scenery.     This 
openness  of  formation  also  caused  the  immense  structure  to 
give  the  impression  of  light,  airy  grace. 

As  Vera  approached,  and  saw  that  groups  of  people  were 
passing  unhindered  under  and  through  the  beautiful  bower, 
she  induced  her  father  to  go  thither  also.  He  seemingly  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  would  humor  Vera  to  her 
heart's  content  on  this  occasion,  though  it  cost  him  a  greater 
effort  than  even  she  realized  to  face  the  curious  stare  he  saw 
on  every  side.     At  first  she  was  so  absorbed  and  delighted 


A  MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT  CHANGES.     403 

with  the  new  and  wonderful  scenes,  that  she  did  not  notice 
how  many  eyes  were  following  her.  Wherever  they  went, 
faces  were  turned  toward  them,  on  which  were  the  blended 
expressions  of  surprise,  admiration,  and  curiosity.  But  Vera 
was  so  utterly  free  from  vanity  and  self -consciousness  that  she 
did  not  notice  this  till  the  fact  was  forced  upon  her.  With 
her  lovely  features  aglow  with  pleasure  and  intelligent  inter- 
est, she  strolled  through  the  arbor  at  the  side  of  her  father, 
calling  his  attention  to  the  festoons  of  flowers,  the  garlands 
encircling  the  rustic  pillars,  the  emblematical  devices,  fieurs- 
de-lis,  and  other  decorations  significant  of  the  American  al- 
liance with  France. 

As  she  was  examining  the  fanciful  manner  in  which  the 
central  pillars  were  surrounded  by  muskets  and  bayonets 
bound  together  by  the  intermingled  colors  of  each  national- 
ity, she  suddenly  became  conscious  of  a  dark,  bloated  face 
directly  before  her,  and  the  rude,  leering  stare  of  two  evil 
eyes.  She  sprang  back  as  if  she  had  seen  a  viper  coiled 
among  the  devices  about  the  pillar,  for  she  recognized  in  the 
stranger  the  tipsy  officer  who  had  insulted  her  by  trying  to 
snatch  a  kiss  at  the  time  she  went  to  Constitution  Island  in 
search  of  tidings  from  Saville. 

"  Ha  !  my  pretty  one,  I  see  you  remember  me,"  he  said 
brassily.  "  I  hope  you  are  now  prepared  to  make  amends 
for  your  coyness  then.  If  so,  I  will  forego  the  grudge  I 
might  naturally  hold  against  you." 

Vera  gave  him  no  other  answer  than  a  look  of  aversion 
and  contempt,  which  her  expressive  features  made  very  un- 
mistakable, and  hastening  to  her  father,  she  induced  him  to 
follow  the  people  who  were  streaming  across  the  plain  to  the 
northern  side,  as  if  something  of  interest  were  taking  place 
there. 

They  had  not  gone  very  far  before  the  fellow,  captivated 
by  Vera' s  beauty,  determined  to  make  another  attempt  to 


404  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

break  down  her  reserve.     She  started  violently  as  she  found 
him  walking  coolly  at  her  side. 

"  Upon  a  gala  occasion  like  this,"  he  said,  "  a  fair  lady 
needs  a  gallant.  I  am  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  and  I 
can  make  the  day  pass  more  pleasantly." 

"  You  are  not  a  gentleman,  sir,  or  you  would  not  thrust 
yourself  upon  those  to  whom  your  society  is  evidently  un- 
welcome." 

"  Nay,  my  lovely  charmer  ;  your  frowns  and  coyness 
only  stimulate  my  desire  to  win  your  favor." 

Almost  before  the  words  were  spoken  a  blow  laid  him 
prostrate  on  the  plain,  and  the  enraged  father  stood  over  him 
and  said,  with  significant  emphasis, 

"  As  you  value  your  life,  do  not  approach  my  daughter 
again  to-day." 

The  scene  was  drawing  a  curious  crowd,  and  Vera,  taking 
her  father's  arm,  hastened  to  escape,  leaving  her  insulter  to 
explain  his  plight  as  he  pleased.  The  scene  explained  itself, 
however,  and  the  prostrate  officer  picked  himself  up  and 
skulked  off  amid  jeers  and  shouts  of  laughter. 

But  among  those  who  had  witnessed  the  incident  was  no 
other  than  the  redoubtable  Captain  Molly  herself,  who,  with 
quite  a  following  of  "  swatehearts,"  was  about  as  jolly  a 
widow  as  one  could  imagine.  She  hastened  after  Vera,  and 
soon  overtook  her,  crying  volubly, 

"  The  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  ye,  Misthress  Vera,  and  the 
same  to  yerself,  sur.  It  did  me  heart  good,  sur,  to  see  how 
ye  gave  that  capting  a  lesson  in  manners.  That  clip  at  the 
side  o'  his  head  is  the  fust  wound  he's  got  in  the  war,  for 
they  say  he's  moighty  discrate  wid  men,  though  bould  as  a 
lion  or  some  wusser  baste  wid  women.  Faix,  and  I'm  hon- 
est glad  to  see  ye  agin,  an'  a-lookin'  as  pertyas  a  wild  rose, 
too.  I  don't  wonder  the  fellers  is  all  a-starin'  at  ve." 
Vera's  greeting  was  cordial  though  quiet     For  some  rea* 


A   MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT   CHAXGES.     405 

son  she  felt  safer  since  Molly  was  within  call  ;  but  she 
shrank  sensitively  from  the  attention  she  drew,  for  the 
"  captain,"  in  her  blue  petticoat,  cocked  hat,  and  the  scar- 
let coat  of  an  artiller\-man,  was  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  be- 
ing followed  by  a  crowd  of  gaping  country  people  wherever 
she  went. 

"  This  festival  is  not  in  honor  of  peace  after  all,"  said  Vera. 

' '  Did  ye  think  that  it  was  ?  Well,  yez  live  so  far  behoind 
the  mountings  that  ye'  re  a  little  behoind  the  times.  Pace 
is  comin'  soon,  but  they  call  this  a  fate,  and  it's  to  the 
honor  of  the  Dolphin  of  France.  " 

"The  Dolphin  of  France?"  said  Vera,  turning  to  her 
father  with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"  Yis,  it's  in  honor  of  the  birth  of  the  Dolphin  of  France. 
That's  what  ivery  one'sa-sayin'.  It's  not  meself  that  knows 
what  kind  of  a  crayther  it  is  that's  been  bourn,  but  I'm 
a-hopin'  its  mother' 11  have  ar  lot  more,  if  we  are  to  have  as 
big  a  day  as  this  ivery  toime  !" 

' '  She  means  that  the  fete  is  in  honor  of  the  birth  of  the 
Dauphin  of  France,  the  child  who  is  heir  to  the  French 
throne,"  said  Vera's  father,  his  grim  face  relaxing  at  Molly's 
words  and  manner. 

"  Now  ye've  got  it  straight,  Misther  Brown.  It's  nothin' 
but  a  baby  we'  re  makin'  sich  a  fuss  about.  But  niver  ye 
moind,  since  we're  goin'  to  have  the  fuss  and  frolic.  An' 
now  I  must  go  back  to  me  swatehearts.  But  belave  me, 
Misthress  Vera,  none  on  'em  comes  up  to  the  fust  'un.  I've 
thried  many  a  one  since  poor  Larry  got  his  head  shot  off, 
but  I  shall  niver  git  his  loikes  agin,"  and  with  that  she 
scampered  off,  to  Vera's  great  relief.  And  yet  the  maiden 
had  cause  to  bless  the  meeting  ever  aftenvard. 

Escaping  from  the  staring,  laughing  crowd  which  Molly's 
appearance  and  words  drew  around  them,  they  soon  reached 
the  northern  edge  of  the  plain  facing  the  river,  from  which 


4o6  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

point  they  witnessed  a  beautiful  spectacle.  Approaching 
the  shore  were  parallel  lines  of  barges  decorated  with  flags 
and  streamers,  and  the  water  around  them  was  flashing  and 
sparkling  under  the  strokes  of  multitudinous  oars.  These 
boats  contained  General  and  Lady  Washington  and  his  suite. 
Governor  Clinton  and  his  wife,  eminent  generals  with  their 
staffs,  and  a  large  number  of  prominent  citizens  and  ladies 
of  rank  and  fashion.  A  band  of  music  led  the  way,  and  ac- 
companied the  distinguished  guests  up  the  hill  to  Major- 
General  McDougall's  quarters,  while  the  artillery  thundered 
out  its  salvo  of  welcome. 

Vera  watched  everything  with  the  wonder  and  delight  of  a 
child,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her,  and  especially  to  her  father, 
that  the  pageant  absorbed  all  attention,  and  that  thej^,  for  a 
time,  were  utterly  unnoticed.  It  gave  them  a  chance  to  re- 
cover from  the  nervousness  and  disquietude  which  their  en- 
counter with  the  rude  officer  and  the  irrepressible  Molly  had 
occasioned.  As  Washington  approached,  Vera  recognized 
him  with  a  strong  thrill  of  pride  and  gratitude. 

"  He  has  the  same  quiet,  noble  face,"  she  thought ;  "he 
is  too  great  to  be  elated  by  all  this  pomp  and  show." 

After  his  Excellency,  his  wife,  and  suite  had  disappeared, 
Vera  was  annoyed  at  finding  so  many  glances  turning  toward 
her  again.  Unlike,  perhaps,  the  majority  of  her  fair  sisters 
who  have  since  visited  West  Point  she  did  not  realise  that 
her  own  lovely  face  was  the  chief  cause.  In  fact,  both  father 
and  daughter  appeared  as  if  they  might  have  stepped  out  of 
some  old  story  for  book  of  fairy  tales  ;  and  Tascar,  as  he 
followed  them,  would  have  answered  very  well  as  a  hobgob- 
lin page.  Many  young  officers  lingered  near,  and  cast  wistful 
glances  at  the  maiden,  but  their  manner  was  respectful  and 
unobtrusive. 

Vera  now  suggested  that  they  should  find  some  quiet  nook 
near  to  the  great  colonnade,  whence  they  could  see  all  with* 


A   MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT   '.HANGES.     407 

out  attracting  notice  themselves  ;  and  her  father  was  only 
too  glad  to  accede,  for  this  exposure  was  taxing  his  resolu- 
tion to  give  Vera  a  day  of  pleasure,  at  every  cost  to  himself, 
almost  beyond  his  power  of  endurance. 

Soon  after  their  arrival,  Vera  had  directed  Tascar  to  find 
Surgeon  Jasper  ;  but  he  returned,  saying  '•hat  the  doctor  had 
been  summoned  home,  on  important  matters,  a  few  days 
previous  ;  so  they  had  no  other  resource  than  to  do  the  best 
they  could  themselves. 

They  at  last  found  a  spot  a  little  off  at  one  side,  from 
which,  under  a  clump  of  trees,  they  had  a  good  view  of  the 
plain,  the  colonnade  or  arbor,  and  surrounding  heights. 
Plain  country  people  and  utter  strangers,  who,  like  them- 
selves, were  bent  on  seeing  the  pageant,  and  had  no  other 
thought,  sat  down  around  them,  hiding  them,  in  part,  from 
view,  and  shutting  away  the  curious  and  obtrusive.  It  was 
not  long  before  they  felt  a  sense  of  security  and  retirement  in 
this  sheltered  place,  which  was  decidedly  reassuring,  and  even 
the  poor  exile  became  interested  in  the  brave  scenes  before 
him,  especially  as  they  gave  evidence  that  the  Americans 
were  gaining  rather  than  losing  the  power  to  cope  with  their 
most  formidable  enemy. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  it  seemed  to  them  that  an 
innumerable  host  appeared.  The  hills  on  the  eastern  side 
of  the  river  were  covered  with  troops,  while  from  every  side 
of  the  plain,  and  on  the  circling  heights  around,  bavonets 
began  to  gleam,  led  forward  by  that  music  which  chiefly 
has  the  power  to  set  the  nerves  tingling  with  excitement. 
The  earth  beneath  them  trembled  under  the  heavy,  rumbling 
wheels  of  the  artillery.  Within  an  hour  the  plain  and  hills 
adjacent,  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  were  covered  with  ser- 
ried ranks  of  men,  their  burnished  weapons  lighting  up  the 
scene  with  flashing  brilliancy,  by  their  vivid  reflection  of  the 
genial  sunlight. 


4o8  NEAR   TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  three  cannons  wers 
Sred  as  a  signal.  All  the  troops  around  the  immense  circle 
advanced  simultaneously  In  grand  and  glittering  array  ;  and, 
after  a  brief  display,  in  full  view  of  the  arbor,  the  men  were 
permitted  to  stack  their  arms,  and  throw  themselves  upon 
the  ground,  or  stroll  about  near  the  line  of  their  position. 

All  the  officers,  except  one  field  officer  to  each  brigade, 
and  one  battalion  officer  to  each  regiment,  repaired  to  the 
colonnade,  where,  they  had  been  informed,  "  General  Wash- 
ington expected  the  pleasure  of  their  company  at  dinner." 
From  every  part  of  the  plain,  and  in  barges  on  the  river,  the 
gallant  veterans  of  seven  years  of  war  were  gathering  to  the 
banquet — -a  most  unwonted  experience  to  them. 

But,  while  Vera  was  enjoying  every  moment  beneath  the 
shelter  of  her  tree,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  honest,  home- 
spun people,  who  were  wondering,  with  breathless  interest, 
at  the  rapidly  shifting  scenes,  she  was  the  object  of  plots  and 
counter-plots.  The  officer  whose  insolence  had  been  pun- 
ished,  in  part,  went  away  with  oaths  of  vengeance.  As  far 
as  he  could  learn,  Vera  was  friendless,  and  her  father  under 
a  cloud  of  some  kind,  so  that  there  would  be  no  one  to  re- 
sent any  indignity  he  might  offer  them.  He  knew  well 
where  to  find  men  of  the  basest  sort  like  himself,  aud,  as 
liquor  flowed  like  water  that  day,  the  evil-disposed  were  reaify 
for  any  reckless  deed.  He  resolved  that  if  Vera  stayed  until 
the  dusk  of  the  evening,  he  would  carry  her  off  to  his  quar- 
ters  up  the  river.  He  laid  his  plans  cunningly,  rapidly,  and 
secreiiy,  taking  into  his  plot  only  a  sufficient  number  to 
carry  it  out.  It  was  briefly  this  :  After  night  obscured  every- 
thing, he  and  his  party  would  suddenly  crowd  up  and  around 
his  victim,  separate  her  from  her  father,  tie  a  handkerchief 
over  her  mouth,  so  that  she  could  make  no  outcry,  and 
spirit  her  off  to  the  shore,  where  a  boat  would  be  in  waiting. 
But  it  so  happened  that  a  bad  fellow  of  this  officer's  com» 


A    MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT  CHANGES.     409 

pany  was  one  of  Captain  Molly's  satellites  ;  for  she  still  was 
not  over  choice  in  her  company.  She  saw  this  man  sum- 
moned away  for  a  few  moments  by  his  captain,  and  the 
whispered  conference  that  followed  ;  and  the  quick-witted 
camp-follower  surmised  that  a  plot  against  Vera  was  on  foot. 

"  What  did  that  spalpeen  say  to  ye  ?"  she  asked  the  man 
on  his  return  to  her  side. 

"  He  was  a-tellin'   me  what  a  handsome  woman  ye  is." 

"  If  ye  don't  tell  me  what  he  said,  ye  may  take  yerself 
off." 

"Now,  Molly,  me  dadint,  why  should  ye  care  what  he 
said  ?' ' 

"  I  don't  care  ;  I've  only  took  a  notion  to  see  how  good 
a  friend  ye 're  to  me.  " 

"  Well,  ye  won't  tell,  thin,  nor  do  anythin'  to  sthop  the 
fun  that'  sup?" 

"  Of  course  not" 

' '  Well,  the  capting,  who  is  moighty  swate  on  the  women, 
is  a-gwine  to  carry  off  a  perty  little  gall  to-night,  and  I'm  to 
help  him,"    he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

"  Is  that  all  V   she  said  carelessly. 

"  I  tould  ye  it  was  somethin'  ye  wouldn't  care  nothin' 
about. 

Molly  made  no  further  reference  to  the  subject,  but  not 
long  after  she  casually,  and  with  no  apparent  motive,  took 
a  position  where  she  could  keep  Vera  and  her  father  con- 
stantly under  her  eye,  and  she  continued  to  maintain  such 
a  position. 

As  the  sun  declined  toward  the  western  highlands.  Gen- 
eral and  Lady  Washington,  his  suite,  and  the  most  distin- 
guished guests  moved  from  General  McDougall's  quarters, 
through  lines  of  saluting  soldiers,  to  the  arbor,  where  was 
spread  as  elegant  a  dinner  as  the  times  and  circumstances 
permitted.      Five  hundred  guests,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  sat 


no  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

down  to  the  dinner,  and  the  thousands  who  looked  on,  kepS 
by  the  guards  at  a  respectful  distance,  regarded  these  fa- 
vored ones  as  among  the  immortals.  Vera  saw  Washington 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  she  wondered  how  one  so  es- 
alted  in  station  could  have  been  so  simple  and  kind  in  hia 
manner  toward  her.  She  found  herself  watching  him,  and 
thinking  about  his  interview  with  her,  during  the  time  he 
was  presiding  over  the  banquet. 

But  there  was  another,  seated  toward  the  further  end  of 
the  table,  who  would  have  absorbed  her  thoughts  completely 
had  she  known  of  his  presence.  Pale,  thin  from  much  suffer- 
ing, and  with  the  sleeve  of  his  left  arm  hanging  empty  at  his 
side,  Saville  sat  quietly  among  the  guests,  equally  in  igno- 
rance that  the  one  never  far  from  his  thoughts  was  but  a  few 
rods  away.  He  had  heard  of  the  proposed  ftts  in  honor  of 
the  Dauphin,  had  hastened  his  journey,  and  arrived  just  in 
time  to  sit  down  with  his  brother  oflBcers  beneath  the  rustic 
arbor.  The  insignia  upon  his  uniform  showed  that  he  had 
been  promoted  to  the  rank  of  colonel  ;  but  the  expression 
of  his  face  revealed  that  he  had  achieved  a  character  which 
is  above  all  earthly  rank  and  distinction. 

He  had  not  written  to  Vera  of  the  serious  nature  of  his 
wound,  and  of  the  irreparable  loss  it  had  occasioned,  know- 
ing that  it  would  pain  her  to  no  purpose.  She  would  grieve 
over  it  continually  ;  but,  when  she  came  to  see  him,  he 
could,  in  a  measure,  make  light  of  it. 

Saville  found  himself  seated  next  to  an  officer  possessing 
the  same  rank  as  himself,  and  of  a  very  noble  mien,  and  dis- 
tinguished bearing.  There  was  a  peculiar  gravity  in  his 
manner  and  expression,  and  he  seemed  to  have  no  disposi- 
tion to  become  convivial,  as  was  the  case  with  the  majority. 
This  made  him  all  the  more  a  congenial  companion  to  Sa- 
ville, and  they  both  speedily  became  interested  in  each  other. 
Saville  thought  he  had  never  met  a  man  of  more  wide  and 


A   MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT  CHANGES.     41 S 

varied  information,  or  one  better  able  to  express  himself  with 
elegance  and  force.  He  also  noted  that  he  was  treated  with 
deference  b}'  those  who  knew  him.  The  stranger  soon  in- 
troduced himself  as  Colonel  Wellingly,  adding,  with  fine 
courtesy,  "  I  have  long  known  you,  Colonel  Sa^/ille,  by 
reputation  as  an  accomplished  engineer  ofiicer,  and  I  have 
heard  of  your  gallantry  at  Yorktown." 

"  I  feel  highly  honored,"  Saville  replied,  "  that  my  name 
has  ever  had  favorable  mention  to  you  ;  but  I  confess  that  I 
am  thoroughly  tired  of  war,  and  would  be  glad  to  devote 
what  there  is  left  of  me  to  the  arts  of  peace." 

■'Well,"  said  Colonel  Wellingly  musingly,  "I  suppose 
the  war  is  practically  over,  and  I  am  glad,  on  account  of  the 
evils  and  suffering  it  ever  occasions.  But  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
know  to  what  I  shall  devote  myself,  unless  it  be  to  the  erec- 
tion of  a  hunting-lodge  among  these  magnificent  mountains. 
I  have  never  seen  a  better  place  in  which  to  while  away  the 
useless  remnant  of  a  life. 

From  the  first  Saville  had  detected  a  low  undertone  of 
sorrow  and  disappointment  in  the  man's  words  and  accent. 
Colonel  Wellingly  evidently  knew  that  he  had  suffered  deeply 
in  the  past,  for  he  said,  as  the  cloth  was  being  removed, 
preparatory  to  the  drinking  of  toasts, 

*'  We  have  both  seen  trouble  in  our  day,  Colonel  Saville  ; 
but  I  envy  you  the  hopeful  spirit  you  possess,  and  the  pur- 
pose still  to  accomplish  something  in  life.  I  am  growing 
listless  and  tired." 

Thirteen  toasts,  appropriate  to  the  occasion,  were  an- 
nounced successively,  and  each  one  was  followed  by  the  dis- 
charge of  artillery  and  joyous  music,  and,  by  not  a  few,  with 
long,  deep  potations,  which  made  their  march  to  their  quar- 
ters anything  but  steady. 

After  the  thirteenth  toast  was  drank,  the  guests  rose  from 
the  tables,  which  were  rapidly  cleared  away  in  preparation 


412  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

for  the  dancing  of  the  evening,  and  the  regimental  officers 
joined  their  respective  commands. 

As  the  twilight  deepened,  the  feu-de-joie  which  had  been 
ordered  commenced  with  the  thunder  of  thirteen  cannon, 
followed  by  volleys  of  musketrj'  along  the  whole  line  of  the 
army  on  the  surrounding  hills.  Three  times  the  circling 
lines  of  fire  flashed  out,  and  the  hills  and  mountains  were 
kept  resounding  with  the  mighty  echoes,  until  they  gave  way 
to  another  and  more  awe-inspiring  sound — the  thrice-repeated 
shout  of  acclamation  and  benediction  for  the  Dauphin,  by 
the  united  voices  of  the  entire  army,  on  every  side.  The 
poor  boy  was  destined  to  soon  hear,  and  from  his  own  peo- 
ple, volleyed  curses,  instead  of  benedictions,  and  a  pitiless 
cry  for  his  blood,  instead  of  loyal  acclamations. 

As  the  last  vehement  shout  died  away,  the  night  was  il- 
luminated by  a  brilliant  display  of  fireworks  from  Fort 
Webb.  The  discharge  of  three  cannon  concluded  the  cere- 
monies of  the  day,  and  was  the  signal  for  the  troops  to  march 
to  their  cantonments. 

In  the  mean  time  the  arbor  or  colonnade  had  been  brill- 
iantly lighted  up,  and  the  dancing  was  about  to  commence. 
Vera  had  been  almost  overwhelmed  with  awe  at  the  deep 
reverberations  of  the  artillery  and  the  impressive  closing 
scenes.  She  now  persuaded  her  father  to  let  her  see  Wash- 
ington open  the  ball,  and  then  she  would  return  home  fully 
content.  And  when  his  Excellency,  with  dignity  and  grace, 
having  Mrs.  General  Knox  for  partner,  carried  down  a  dance 
of  twenty  couples  in  the  stately  minuet,  she  felt  as  if  the 
grandest  visions  which  her  old  friend  Will  Shakspeare  had 
ever  raised  in  her  mind,  had  been  more  than  fulfilled. 

But  all  was  growing  confused  and  somewhat  disorderly 
where  they  stood,  and  her  father  had  said  more  than  once, 

"  Come,  Vera,  it  is  getting  late,  and  we  have  far  to  go." 

Vera  turned  away  with  a  deep  sigh  ;  she  had  ever  felt  a 


A    MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT  CHAXGES.     413 

longing^  for  social  pleasures  and  the  companionship  of  people 
of  culture.  The  beautiful  and  brilliant  scene  before  her 
showed  how  attractive  such  occasions  were  in  realit}',  and 
she  had  looked  on  with  the  natural  desires  of  a  young  and 
healthful  mind.  She  had  once  hoped  to  participate  in  such 
social  reunions  at  the  side  of  Saville,  and  even  the  thought 
had  been  ecstasy.  But  now  she  felt  that  the  deep  shade, 
which  fell  so  early  across  their  humble  mountain  cabin,  was 
the  t}'pe  of  the  somber  shadow  that  would  ever  rest  upon 
her  life. 

"  Come,  Vera,"  said  her  father  still  more  urgently  to  the 
girl,  who  was  lingering,  for  she  saw  in  the  gay  throng  be- 
neath the  arbor  a  face  that  reminded  her  of  Saville. 

They  found  their  steps  impeded  ;  the  confusion  around 
them  increased  ;  suddenly  her  father  was  struck  down  by  a 
blow  from  some  one  behind  him,  and  before  Vera  could  cry 
out,  a  handkerchief  was  passed  around  her  mouth,  two  men 
seized  her  hands  on  either  side  and  thrust  them  within  their 
arms,  and  she  was  being  forced  away  in  the  darkness,  she 
knew  not  whither  ;  but  she  could  not  help  associating  the 
dark,  bloated-faced  ofiScer  who  had  twice  before  insulted 
her,  v/ith  the  outrage. 

The  assault  had  been  cunningly  conceived  and  skillfully 
carried  out,  for  the  villainous  accomplices  were  making  loud 
demonstrations  around  the  prostrate  father,  thus  drawing  the 
attention  and  the  crowd  thither,  while  the  daughter  was  be- 
ing hurried  off  unperceived. 

Never,  perhaps,  had  Vera  been  in  greater  peril  before. 
She  was  so  overcome  by  terror  and  a  sense  of  suffocation 
that  she  was  almost  fainting,  when  the  handkerchief  was 
snatched  from  her  mouth,  and  she  wrenched  violently  from 
the  grasp  of  her  captors. 

"  Ye  spalpeens  !"  cried  Captain  Molly,  with  a  wild  Irish 
howl,  and  she  drew  her  nails  across  the  eyes  of  one  of  the 


414  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

men.  No  wildcat  of  the  neighboring  mountains  could  have 
given  a  deeper  or  more  vindictive  scratch,  and  he  was  glad 
to  stumble  off  in  the  darkness  away  from  the  crowd  which 
Molly's  shrill  voice  was  rapidly  gathering. 

But  it  was  toward  the  principal  villain  that  the  redoubt- 
able "  captain"  directed  her  chief  attention,  and  she  laid 
upon  him  a  clutch  from  which  he  vainly  sought  to  escape. 

"I'll  tache  ye  a  lesson,"  she  yelled.  "  Ye  shall  have 
gome  wounds  afore  the  war  is  over,  I  warrant  ye,  an'  they 
won't  be  in  yer  back  'nuther,  but  on  yer  big  bloated  face, 
where  yer  grandchildren  kin  see  the  scars  ;"  and  she  clawed 
him  like  a  tigress,  and  until  his  cries  made  a  duet  with  her 
own  shrill  voice. 

On  being  released.  Vera  had  looked  around  a  moment  in 
hesitating  terror.  She  could  not  see  her  father,  and  she 
knew  not  where  he  was.  All  around  were  dark,  strange 
faces,  and  hurrying  forms  of  men  and  women,  and  the  air 
was  filled  with  confused  cries,  above  which  arose  Molly's 
loud  vituperation,  for  with  every  blow  and  scratch  she  fired 
a  volley  of  epithets.  But  a  few  rods  away,  the  bewildered 
girl  saw  the  lighted  arbor,  with  Washington  full  in  view.  If 
she  could  reach  him  she  knew  that  she  would  be  safe.  She 
darted  through  the  intervening  throng,  past  the  startled  and 
astonished  guests,  and  knelt  at  his  feet. 

"  Officer  of  the  guard,"  cried  Washington  sternly, 
"  what  means  such  ruffianly  disorder  without  that  women 
must  fly  to  us  for  protection  ?  Arrest  all  concerned  in  it. 
What  do  you  wish,  madam?  Do  not  be  afraid, "  he  said 
to  Vera. 

"  Your  Excellency,"  cried  Saville,  stepping  eagerly  for. 
ward,  "  I  will  answer  for  that  maiden  with  my  life." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Vera  sprang  to  his  side  and 
dung,  panting,  to  his  arm. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Saville,  I  think  that  she  is  capable  of  an- 


A   MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREA  F  CHANGES.    415 

swering  for  herself.  If  I  mistake  not,  I  have  met  this  young 
girl  before." 

"Yes,  your  Excellency,"  faltered  Vera,  with  her  hand 
upon  her  side  ;  ' '  and  you  were  kind  to  me  and  therefore  I 
fled  to  you  for  protection  now." 

'  And  you  shall  have  full  protection,  my  child  ;  so,  calm 
your  fears.  Indeed,  Mr.  Saville  looks  as  if  he  might  defend 
you  against  the  world. " 

By  this  time  the  attention  of  all  was  directed  to  Colonel 
Wellingly.  With  a  face  as  pallid  as  that  of  Vera's,  he  came 
forward  and  asked,  in  a  husky  voice, 

*'  Will  you  please  tell  me  your  name.?" 

»'  Vera— Vera  Brown." 

* '  Is  that  your  only  name  V ' 

"Yes." 

The  colonel  looked  at  her  a  moment,  shook  his  head  de- 
spondently, and  muttered,  as  he  stepped  back, 

' '  It's  very,  very  strange.  I  never  saw  such  a  resemblance  ; 
and  the  same  old  habit,  too,  of  putting  her  hand  to  hef 
side." 

' '  O  Theron  I  you  have  lost  an  arm.  You  did  not  tel3 
me, '  *  said  Vera,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  That  is  a  small  loss  compared  with  all  I  have  gained 
I  did  not  wish  to  pain " 

"My  daughter,  where  is  my  daughter?"  cried  a  loud, 
agonized  voice  from  without,  and  wrenching  himself  away 
from  the  guards  who  had  arrested  him  as  one  of  the  disturb- 
ers of  the  peace,  the  exile  rushed  into  the  lighted  arbor. 
All  fell  back  before  his  tall  form,  and  wild,  threatening 
aspect,  for  the  expression  of  his  face  was  a  terriDlt  blending 
of  anguish  and  rage. 

' '  She  is  here,  Mr.  Brown, ' '  said  Saville  promptly. 
"  You  are  both  among  friends  ;"  and  he  led  Vera  to  him 
and  placed  her  hand  in  his. 


4l6  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART, 

"  Come,"  said  her  father  eagerl}' ;  "  let  us  go.  Let  us 
escape  while  we  can.  " 

Again  Colonel  Wellingly  stepped  forward  and  confronted 
the  exil.e. 

"  Who  are  5'ou  .?"   he  asked  excitedly. 

The  moment  Mr.  Brown's  eyes  fell  on  the  questioner,  he 
staggered  back  as  if  he  had  received  a  heavy  blow. 

"Are  you  x^rthur  Wellingly?"  he  asked,  in  a  strange, 
hoarse  whisper. 

"  I  am,"   was  the  agitated  answer. 

"  You  did  not  die,  then  ?" 

"  No,  Guy  ;  and  I  have  been  searching  lor  you  all  these 
years.  O  my  brother  !"  and  he  clasped  the  trembling  exile 
to  his  heart. 

"  O  Esther,  Esther  !  my  poor,  dead  wife  !  why  could  you 
not  have  seen  this  day  ?"'  Guy  Wellingly  groaned,  with  re- 
morseful memories. 

"  She  is  dead,  then  .?"  his  brother  said,  in  a  low,  shud- 
dering tone. 

"  Yes,  dead." 

At  this  moment,  Vera,  to  whcm  the  strange  scene 
began  to  grow  intelligible,  stepped  forward  and  said  ear- 
nestly, 

"  No,  father — no,  uncle — not  dead,  but  in  heaven." 

"This  is  a  remarkable  scene,"  said  Washington,  with 
moistened  eyes.  ' '  Colonel  Wellingly,  I  congratulate  you 
on  the  success  of  your  long  search,  of  which  I  have  often 
heard  with  sympathy.  I  already  esteem  myself  as  among 
the  friends  of  your  niece,  and  think  you  will  have  just  cause 
to  be  proud  of  her  ;  and  I  shall  hope  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  your  brother.  I  now  suggest  that  you  take  your 
relatives  to  your  quarters,  for  you  must  have  much  to  speak 
of  in  which  strangers  have  no  part. ' ' 

"  I  thank  your  Excellency,"   was  the  grateful  reply.     "  I 


A   MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT   CHANGES.     41? 

have  been  so  overwhelmed  by  this  unexpected  meeting  that 
I  am  not  myself." 

"  Your  emotions  are  most  natural,  sir,  and  are  to  your 
credit." 

"  Vera,"  said  Saville,  coming  to  her  side  and  taking  her 
hand,  "  I  am  overjoyed  at  your  good  fortune.  I  thank  God 
from  the  depths  of  my  heart.  ]\Iy  little  wild  flower  has  be- 
come a  great  lady." 

He  felt  her  fingers  seeking  her  mother's  ring,  and  she  an- 
swered in  a  low  tone,  *'  No  outward  changes  can  change  that 
of  which  this  ring  is  the  token.  You  shall  ever  be  first 
Good  night." 

But  before  they  could  move  away,  a  shrill  voice  just 
without  the  arbor  cried, 

"  Ye  didn't  arrist  him  at  all ;  I  arristed  him  meself,  and 
I'm  a-goin'  to  take  him  afore  his  Ixcellency.  Git  out  o'  the 
way,  ye  spalpeens,  or  I'll  tear  yer  eyes  out ;"  and  she  broke 
from  the  guards,  dragging  her  bleeding,  half-murdered  captive 
with  her,  and  did  not  stop  till  she  stood  before  Washington. 

' '  This  is  the  spalpeen,  your  Ixcellency,  as  was  carryin'  of 
the  pert)'  Misthress  Vera.  I  heerd  the  hull  plot,  and  I 
cotched  him  in  the  very  dade. 

"What  does  all  this  mean.'"  demanded  Washington 
sternly,  and  yet  with  difficulty  maintaining  his  gravity,  for 
the  wretched  officer  looked  like  a  torn  quarry  in  the  claws  of 
some  strange  bird  of  prey. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  all  we  can  tell  your  Excellency  is  that  we 
found  him  on  the  ground,  and  this  woman  on  top  of  him 
pounding  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life." 

At  this  there  was  a  general  and  irrepressible  burst  of  laugh- 
ter, in  which  even  Washington  joined  for  a  moment.  But, 
instantly  recovering  his  gravity,  he  asked, 

' '  Miss  Wellingly,  does  this  woman  state  ^e  truth  about 
this  man  V ' 


4l8  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  She  does,  your  Excellency  ;  but  I  think  that  he  has 
been  sufficiently  punished  and  humiliated  already." 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you  upon  this  occasion,"  said 
Washington,  his  face  becoming  almost  terrible  in  his  indig- 
nation.    Then  addressing  Captain  Molly,  he  asked, 

"  You  are  the  woman  who  took  her  husband's  place  at 
his  gun  in  the  battle  of  Monmouth  ?" 

"  I  be,  your  Ixcellency  ;  an'  it  was  moighty  swate  in  ye 
to  give  me  the  pay  and  rank  of  sergeant." 

Washington's  face  twitched  a  moment,  but  he  managed  to 
say,  with  his  former  sternness, 

'•  You  are  a  far  better  soldier  than  the  craven  whom  I  am 
glad  to  see  in  your  clutches.  Will  you  oblige  me  by  taking 
from  his  uniform  all  insignia  of  rank  ?" 

"  Faix,  yer  Ixcellency,  I  will.     Barrin'  the  presence  of  th^ 

foine  leddies,  I'd  take  ivery  stetch  off  him  as  I'd  skin  an  eel." 

A  roar  of  laughter  followed  this  speech,  and  her  miserable 

victim  looked  as  if  he  would  indeed  be  glad  to   have  the 

mountains  fall  and  cover  him  from  the  universal  scorn, 

"Now,"  continued  Washington  to  an  officer,  '  taks 
him  to  the  guard  house,  and  to-morrow  I  wish  him  drum- 
med out  of  camp  with  the  Rogue's  March  ;"  and  the  cul- 
prit was  led  away. 

"  Come,  my  dear  niece,  my  heart  is  too  full  to  endure 
this  publicity  any  longer, ' '  said  Colonel  Wellingly, 

"  In  one  moment,"  Vera  replied  ;  and  crossing  to  Cap- 
tain Molly,  she  took  her  hand  in  both  of  hers,  saying, 

*'  I  thank  you  from  the  depths  of  my  heart.  If  you  ever 
aeed  a  friend,  come  to  me.  " 

*'  Have  ye  become  a  great  leddy  ?" 
"  I  should  not  be  a  lady  at  all  did  I  fail  to  remember, 
with  grateful  affection,  all  who  were  kind  to  me  in  my  need. 
Good -by  for  the  present,  my  brave,  true  friend.     I  owe  yos 
more  than  words  can  express. ' ' 


A   MYSTERY  SOLVED— GREAT  CHANGES.     419 

"An'  ye  pay  me  in  the  coin  I  loikes  best.  Faix,  ther's 
nothin'  that  goes  furder  wid  man  nor  baste  than  a  koind 
word.  Though  I'm  a  bit  rough  and  reckless  loike,  I'd 
ruther  have  ye  spake  to  me  as  ye  does  than  a  hatful  oi 
crowns. '  * 

"  The  money  shall  not  be  lacking  either,"  -jald  Colonel 
Wellingly,  offering  her  his  purse. 

"  Not  a  penny  will  I  iver  take  for  Awythin'  I've  done  for 
Misthress  Vera,"  and  she  darted  away. 

With  a  low  courtesy  to  General  and  Lady  Washington, 
and  a  swift  glance  to  Saville,  Vera  permitted  herself  to  be 
led  away  with  her  father  ;  and  the  wondering  guests  were 
boundless  in  their  admiration,  and  almost  equally  so  in 
queries  that  could  not  as  yet  be  answered. 

Tascar,  who  had  been  watching  all  in  a  state  of  excitement 
that  made  him  almost  as  explosive  as  one  of  the  cartridges 
of  i\iQ /eude-Joie,  was  sent  to  inform  old  Gula  that  her  mas- 
ter and  mistress  would  not  return  that  night  ;  and  the  tale 
he  told  his  mother,  and  acted  out  in  pantomime  that  night, 
was  more  marvelous  than  any  of  her  weird  imaginings. 

A  few  hours  later  the  beautiful  colonnade  or  arbor  was 
darkened,  and  echoed  only  to  a  lonely  sentinel's  tread. 


420  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART* 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


EXPLANATIONS. 


EVEN  the  rude  temporary  quarters  which  ColoRel  Wei- 
lingly  occupied,  at  West  Point,  gave  evidence  that  he 
was  a  man  of  wealth  and  culture  ;  for,  as  far  as  possible,  he 
had  surrounded  himself  with  objects  that  ministered  to  re- 
fined and  luxurious  tastes.  He  had  been  the  more  inclined 
to  carry  out  his  bent,  from  the  fact  that  his  duties  would,  m. 
all  probability,  keep  him  at  his  present  location  for  a  long 
time. 

In  the  fullness  of  his  heart  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  do 
enough  for  his  brother  and  niece ;  and,  for  one  naturally 
stately  and  reserved,  his  manner  was  affectionate  in  the  ex- 
treme. He  embraced  Vera  again  and  again,  and  his  eyes 
rested  on  her  with  an  expression  of  wistful  tenderness,  which 
proved  that  she  was  the  embodiment  of  a  very  dear  memory. 

When  he  heard  that  they  had  not  partaken  of  any  re- 
freshment since  their  frugal  lunch  early  in  the  day,  he 
brought  out  a  bottle  of  rich  old  madeira,  and  ordered  his 
servant  to  prepare  as  sumptuous  a  supper  as  could  be  pro- 
vided promptly. 

"  I  cannot  realize  it  all,"  said  Vera  again  and  again  ;  and 
her  father  ejaculated,  more  than  once, 

"  Thank  God  !  your  blood,  Arthur,  is  not  on  my  soiei. 
It  is  now  possible  that  I  may  again  become  a  man."  A£t^ 
a  few  moments  he  asked  hesitatingly, 

' '  Shall  we  tell  Vera  ?    She  does  aot  know. ' ' 


EX  PL  A  NA  TIONS.  42 1 

"  Yes,  Guy  ;  it's  right  she  should  know.  I  will  tell  her, 
Dr  I  feel  that  I  am  as  much,  if  not  more,  to  blame  than 
you." 

"  No,  Arthur  ;  no.  There  is  no  excuse  for  the  murder- 
ous blow  I  struck  you,  and  the  remorse  and  fear,  that  have 
followed  me  through  all  these  years,  have  nearly  destroyed 
my  reason.  I  sank  lower  than  the  beasts  ;  for  they,  at  least, 
provide  for  tlieir  own.  I  wonder  that  you  can  forgive  me. 
1  can  never  forgive  myself." 

"  I  do  forgive,  and  in  the  same  breath  ask  forgiveness. 
Henceforth  we  must  be  to  each  other  all  that  she  who  is 
dead  would  have  wished.  1  shall  seek  to  make  reparation 
to  you  and  Vera  to  the  extent  of  my  ability,  and  you  shall 
share  in  all  I  possess.  It  is  best  that  Vera  should  know 
everything,  for  v/ith  those  who  are  as  closely  united  as  we 
shall  be,  there  should  be  no  mysteries.  Vera,  the  highest 
praise  I  can  give  you  is,  that  you  closely  resemble  your 
mother  when  she  was  of  your  age.  Never  did  a  maiden 
live  who  had  greater  power  to  win  and  keep  affection  than 
Esther  Ainsley.  She  was  of  humble  station,  being  the 
daughter  of  a  curate,  who  had  a  small  charge  near  to  our 
estate  ;  but  she  was  dowered  with  a  beauty  of  person  and 
character  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled.  Our  mother 
died  v/hen  Guy  and  myself  were  children,  and  our  father 
died  before  I  was  through  with  my  studies,  so  that  I  as  el- 
dest son,  became  heir  to  a  large  property,  at  a  time  when  I 
needed  restraint,  guidance,  and  counsel,  more  than  wealth 
and  independence.  The  lessons  of  self-control  and  patience, 
which  should  have  been  taught  us  in  childhood  and  youth, 
were  left  to  the  schooling  of  bitter  experience  ;  and  bitter, 
in  truth,  it  has  been  to  us  both.  I  valued  ray  untrammeled 
position  chiefly  because  there  was  no  one  to  prevent  me 
from  marrying  the  daughter  of  this  obscure  and  penniless 
curate.     Only  her  own  will,  which  was  as  strong  as  she  was 


422  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

gentle,  did  prevent  the  marriage,  for  I  sought  in  eTcry  pos- 
sible way  to  shake  her  resolution.  There  was  not  a  trace  of 
gratified  vanity  in  her  refusal,  but  only  the  keenest  distress. 
At  last  she  told  me  that  she  loved  some  one  else,  and  I  think 
she  was  about  to  inform  me  who  it  was,  but  my  darkly  vin- 
dictive face  prevented  her.  Egotistic  and  passionate  fool 
that  I  was,  I  felt  that  no  one  had  a  right  to  thwart  me,  and 
I  determined  to  discover  the  one,  whom  I  at  once  regarded 
as  a  personal  enemy.  To  be  brief,  I  was  not  long  in  learn- 
ing that  it  was  Guy,  my  younger  and  only  brother  ;  but,  in 
the  infatuation  of  my  passion,  this  fact  made  no  difference, 
and,  as  the  eldest,  I  would  brook  no  rivalry.  I  confronted 
him  one  evening,  as  he  was  returning  from  a  tryst  with 
Esther,  and  arrogantly  informed  him  that  he  could  not  cross 
my  path  in  this  matter.  I  first  made  him  a  large  offer,  if 
he  would  quit  the  country  and  leave  the  field  clear  for  me. 
But  he  said,  and  wi  th  good  reason,  that  he  would  not  re- 
linquish Esther  Ainsley  for  the  wealth  of  England,  much  less 
for  the  pitiful  sum  I  offered.  One  word  led  to  another. 
We  both  became  enraged,  and  at  last  I  sprang  toward  him 
in  a  transport  of  passion,  and  he,  equally  unmanned,  struck 
me  on  the  head  with  a  heavy  cane  that  he  carried  and  for 
weeks  thereafter  I  was  unconscious." 

Guy  Wellingly,  who  was  sitting  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  groaned  deeply. 

"You  see.  Vera,"  continued  her  uncle,  "I  was  even 
more  to  blame  than  he.  I  had  it  in  my  heart  to  strike  just 
as  heavy  a  blow.  Indeed,  we  were  both  beside  ourselves 
at  the  time,  and  scarcely  responsible.  The  trouble  was  that 
neither  of  us  had  ever  learned  the  first  lesson  of  self-re- 
straint." 

"  O  Arthur  !  I  was  sure  I  had  killed  you.  I  brought 
water  from  the  brook,  but  I  could  not  revive  you,  and 
then  came  the  one  desperate,  all-absorbing  desire  to  fly  and 


EXFLANA  TIONS.  433 

hide,  which  has  been  my  curse  ever  since.     I  felt  that  I  had 

npon  me  the  mark  of  Cain. ' ' 

"  We  have  both  paid  dearly  for  that  rash  quarrel,  in 
which  I  insist  that  I  was  to  blame  more  truly  than  yourselL 
I  had  a  narrow  escape  from  death.  My  body  servant  found 
me  late  at  night,  and  I  revived  only  to  pass  into  a  brain 
fever,  and  then  after  I  regained  consciousness  came  the 
dreary  weeks  of  slow  convalescence,  in  which  recovery  was 
retarded  by  my  restlessnesr  and  self-reproach.  For  a  time 
I  tried  to  forget  my  sorrow  and  disappointment  in  dissipa- 
tion, but  I  soon  turned  from  sensual  excess  with  loathing. 
In  every  sane  moment  I  saw  Esther's  pure,  reproachful  face. 
1  do  not  think  that  a  man,  who  has  been  absorbed  by  a  love 
for  a  pure,  good  woman,  can  e^'er  make  a  beast  of  him- 
self, unless  there  is  something  essentially  gross  in  his 
nature. 

"  As  soon  as  I  was  able,  I  traced  you  and  Esther  to  Liv- 
erpool, and  all  I  could  learn  was  that  you  had  been  married 
and  had  sailed  for  America.  Her  fether  and  mother  were 
quite  broken-hearted  at  the  loss  of  their  child.  The  only  al- 
leviation of  their  sorrow  that  I  could  give  was  to  secure  to 
them  a  competence  for  life.  As  time  passed  on,  and  I 
brooded  over  the  past,  quiet  life  in  England  became  hateful 
to  me.  I  resolved  that  I  would  come  to  this  country  and 
try  to  find  you.  As  the  years  passed,  this  search  became  a 
passion  with  me,  and  the  increasing  difficulty  and  doubt 
only  stimulated  my  purpose.  It  was  a  good  thing  for  me, 
for  it  absorbed  my  sad  thoughts,  and  kept  my  mind  from 
preying  on  itself.  I  would  often  follow  a  supposed  clue  for 
months,  only  to  be  disappointed.  I  have  often  passed  up 
and  down  this  river,  little  dreaming  that  the  objects  of  my 
search  were  but  a  few  hundred  rods  away.  Oh  !  that  I  had 
found  you  in  time  to  have  seen  Esther,  and  asked  her  for- 
giveness. 

Roe— VIII— S 


424  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"  But  a  few  words  more  will  explain  how  1  happen  to  be 
in  the  Continental  service.  In  my  wandering  over  this  coun- 
try, I  became  greatly  enamored  with  its  beauty  and  magnifi- 
cence, while  the  wildness  of  many  of  its  vast  solitudes  ac- 
corded with  my  moods  and  tastes.  I  am  very  fond  of  hunt- 
ing, and  I  could  gratify  that  bent  here  to  my  heart's  desire. 
I  have  no  special  ties  in  England,  so  I  returned  thither,  sold 
my  estate  to  advantage,  and,  to  insure  myself,  invested  large 
sums  in  France  and  Holland,  as  well  as  England,  in  addi- 
tion to  that  which  I  brought  with  me  to  this  country.  When 
the  American  struggle  for  independence  commenced,  my 
heart  took  sides  with  this  people.  They  had  been  so  kind 
and  sympathetic  in  every  case,  as  they  learned  that  I  was  try- 
ing to  find  relatives  who  had  migrated  hither,  that  I  identi- 
fied myself  with  their  cause  from  the  first.  Besides,  my  long 
residence  here  convinced  me  of  its  justness.  On  seeing  that 
the  struggle  was  inevitable,  I  instructed  my  English  agent  to 
transfer  my  funds  to  Holland,  and  from  thence  I  have  drawn 
them  largely  hither,  and  the  American  Government  is,  to 
some  extent,  in  my  debt.  During  the  war,  I  sought  the 
duty  of  a  staff  officer,  as  it  brought  me  in  contact  with  many 
troops  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  and  enabled  me  to  con- 
tinue my  inquiries  concerning  any  one  answering  to  youi 
name  and  description.  But  you  escaped  me  utterly,  until 
our  most  unexpected  meeting  to-night.  I  v/as  getting  weary 
and  discouraged  in  my  search.  I  was  becoming  oppressed 
with  my  loneliness,  and  life  began  to  drag  heavily  ;  but  now 
that  I  have  found  you,  Guy,  and  have  this  dear  girl,  who  is 
the  image  of  her  mother,  to  provide  for,  I  shall  find  abun- 
dant zest  in  living." 

As  he  finished  his  narration,  Vera  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  said, 

**  I  am  equal  to  mother  in  only  one  thing.  I  can  love 
very  deeply,  and  you  have  won  my  heart  already.     I  won't 


EXPLANA  TIONS.  425 

let  you  regret  having  found  me,  uncle. "     Then  going  to 
her  father's  side,  she  added,  with  reassuring  caresses, 

"  After  this  night,  do  not  again  doubt  that  God  is  good, 
father.  Though  I  never  before  knew  what  the  deed  was 
that  led  to  your  flight  from  England,  I  have  been  sure  that 
Mr.  Saville's  words  were  true,  and  that  your  '  remorse  was 
greater  than  your  crime.'  " 

"No,  Vera,"  replied  her  father,  in  strong  emotion.  "If 
I  had  in  fact  slain  this  generous  and  forgiving  brother,  I 
should  never  have  known  peace  in  this  or  any  other  world. 
As  it  is,  Arthur,  I  am  but  a  miserable  wreck  of  v.  man, 
warped,  by  base  fear  and  years  of  brooding  lemorse,  from 
all  good  and  noble  uses.  There  is  nothing  that  makes  such 
awful  havoc  in  the  soul  as  a  constant  sense  of  guilt.  The 
knov/ledge  that  you  are  living  has  brought  me  inexpressible 
relief,  and  I  ask  nothing  more,  and  nothing  better  than  this 
fact  But  Vera  still  has  life  before  her.  I  have  at  tim^ 
meditated  self-destniction,  in  the  hope  that  she  might  thus 
escape  the  curse  which  I  felt  resting  on  me  ;  but  something 
held  me  back." 

"  Thank  God  i"  murmured  Vera  shuddering. 

"Now  she  can  be  very  happy,"  continued  her  fether. 
"  Since  I  am  not  the  foul  criminal  that,  in  justice  to  Mr. 
Saville,  I  told  him  that  I  was,  his  pride  will  no  longer  be  an 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  their  marriage." 

"Vera  marry  Colonel  Saville  1"  exclaimed  her  uncle. 
*'  He  is  married  already." 

"  Saville  married  i"  ejaculated  her  father,  in  unbounded 
surprise  and  rising  anger.  ' '  Then  I  have  an  account  to 
settle  with  him  ;"  and  his  tall  form  towered  up  instinct  with 
passion. 

At  the  mention  of  Saville's  name  Vera'sface  became  scar- 
let ;  then,  at  her  father's  words,  her  pallor  was  equally 
Barked. 


426  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

"Vera,"  said  her  uncle,  in  a  tone  of  deep  distress,  "what 
trouble  have  we  here  ?" 

But  the  maiden,  strong  in  her  conscious  rectitude,  rallied 
promptly,  and,  in  a  firm,  quiet  tone,  said, 

"  We  have  no  trouble  whatever,  except  we  make  it. 
Uncle,  Mr.  Saville  is  a  true,  honorable  man,  and  he  has 
never  asked  me  to  do  a  thing  that  he  thought  wrong.  Both 
father  and  myself  would  have  been  dead  years  ago  were  it 
not  for  his  unspeakable  kindness.  Father,  be  calm.  You 
cannot  strike  Theron  Saville  without  striking  me.  He  is 
m}  brother,  my  more  than  brother,  and  I  love  him  better 
than  life." 

"  But,  Vera,"  remonstrated  her  uncle,  with  a  gravity  al- 
most approaching  to  sternness  ;  "  in  your  secluded  life  you 
have  not  learned  how  rigid  the  proprieties  of  life  are  in  these 
matters.     You  bear  the  proud  name  of  Wellingly,  and ' ' 

"  Uncle,"  interrupted  Vera,  with  a  dignity  and  firmness 
of  which  her  gentle  mother  had  never  been  capable,  * '  I  bear 
a  prouder  name  than  that  of  Wellingly.  I  am  a  Christian, 
and,  in  the  light  of  God's  truth,  and  not  the  fashion  of  this 
world,  I  have  thought  this  matter  out  to  its  right  issue,  and 
I  shall  stand  by  my  decision.  Rather  than  permit  any  one 
to  come  between  me  and  Mr.  Saville,  I  will  go  back  to  the 
poverty  and  obscurity  of  our  mountain  cabin  for  the  rest  of 
life.  I  do  not  speak  these  words  as  a  willful,  ignorant  child, 
but  as  a  woman  who  has  been  matured  and  sobered  by  years 
of  bitter  sorrow.  Mr.  Saville  is  my  dearest  friend — nothing 
more  ;  and  he  never  can  be  anything  more.  I  have  known 
for  years  that  he  is  married.  He  told  me  himself,  and  he 
never  cherished  one  dishonorable  thought  toward  me.  I 
declare  to  you  both  that  there  is  nothing  in  our  relationship 
to  which  my  sainted  mother  would  object.  But  I  would 
rather  perish  by  slow  torture  than  stand  aloof  from  him  or 
treat  him  coldly." 


EXPLANA  TIONS.  427 

"  This  is  very  extraordinary,"  said  her  uncle. 

*'  I  cannot  reconcile  his  conduct  with  your  words,"  add- 
ed her  father,  in  deep  agitation. 

The  strain  of  the  eventful  day  had  at  last  become  too  great 
for  Vera,  and  she  felt  herself  growing  faint 

"  Be  patient,"  she  said  wearily  ;  "  you  shall  know  all 
A^  uncle  said,  we  shall  have  no  mysteries.  But  I  can  say 
no  more  to-night.  In  pity,  uncle,  remember  what  I  have 
passed  through  to-day." 

"  Forgive  me,  my  child,"  he  said  remorsefully,  and 
bringing  her  a  glass  of  wine.  "  I  will  trust  you,  Vera,"  he 
added  ;  "for  your  words  and  manner"  are  those  of  truth  and 
purity.  My  only  fear  is  lest  you  should  be  misled  through 
your  innocence  and  ignorance  of  the  world. ' ' 

She  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face  a  moment  as  only  the 
innocent  could  do,  and  then  replied, 

' '  Uncle,  my  honor  and  good  name  are  as  safe  in  Mr. 
Saville's  hands  as  in  yours  or  father's.  He  is  a  Christian 
gentleman,  in  the  truest  and  strongest  sense  of  the  word." 

"  There,  my  dear,  I  am  satisfied,  and  your  father  must 
be,  too,  until  he  can  have  fuller  explanation.  Calm  your- 
self now,  and  let  me  show  you  to  the  best  resting-place  which 
a  soldier  can  provide  for  a  guest  who  is  as  loved  and  wel- 
come as  she  was  unexpected  ;"  and,  without  listening  to 
her  remonstrances,  he  gave  her  his  own  room,  and  kissed 
her  tenderly  as  he  said  good-night. 

Vera  was  too  exhausted  to  think  ;  but  she  was  dimly  con- 
scious that,  after  all,  it  would  be  difi5cult  to  make  her  father 
and  uncle  understand  the  honest  skepticism  from  which  Sa- 
ville's course  was  the  natural  outgrowth.  What  was  so  clear 
to  her  mind  might  seem  dubious,  or  worse,  to  theirs.  She 
was  not  so  wear)',  however,  but  that  she  thanked  God,  with 
a  boundless  gratitude,  that  He  had  led  her  safely  through 
that  season  of  doubt  and  strong  temptation.     If  she  had 


428  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART, 

yielded,  she  saw  plainly  that  her  proud  and  stately  uncle 
would  have  cast  her  away  in  bitter  contempt ;  or,  what  was 
far  worse,  her  father  might  have  killed  her  lover. 

Early  the  next  morning  Saville  sought  an  interview  with 
Colonel  Wellingly,  and,  to  secure  privacy,  took  him  to  Jas- 
per's quarters,  which  he  was  occupying,  in  the  surgeon's 
absence. 

Vera's  words  and  manner  had  convinced  her  uncle  that 
she  had  not  consciously  erred  from  the  path  of  rectitude, 
but  he  was  not  so  sure  of  Saville  ;  and  it  must  be  confessed 
that  he  was  not  a  little  anxious,  for  he  saw  that  Vera  was  a 
girl  of  unusual  force  and  decision,  and  he  feared  that  if  Sa- 
ville chose  to  take  advantage  of  the  strong  hold  he  had  upon 
her  affections,  he  could  make  them  trouble  indeed.  Al- 
though he  had  been  very  favorably  impressed  with  Saville, 
his  knowledge  of  the  world  made  him  slow  and  cautious  in 
trusting  men  who  are  under  strong  temptation.  And  yet  he 
was  pleased  with  the  fact  that  the  young  man  had  come  to 
him  so  promptly,  feeling  that  it  might  give  him  a  chance  to 
prevent  difficulties. 

"  Colonel  Wellingly,"  said  Saville,  after  they  were  alone, 
"  I  have  sought  the  first  opportunity  possible  that  1  might 
make  explanations  which  are  your  due,  and  which  it  might 
cause  your  niece  pain  and  embarrassment  to  give.  I  have 
no  fears  that  my  good  name  would  suffer  through  any  words 
of  hers  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  would  excuse  conduct  for 
which  I  have  only  bitter  condemnation.  I  owe  to  her  my 
life,  and  much  more  than  life,  and  it  is  a  privilege  to  save 
her  from  the  least  pain  and  annoyance.  Are  you  willing  to 
listen  to  an  honest  statement  of  all  that  has  occurred  between 
us.?" 

"Colonel  Saville,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  am  gratified  that 
you  have  thus  early  sought  this  interview,  for  it  tends  to  as- 
sure me  that  my  niece's  confidence  in  you  as  a  Christian 


EX  PL  A  N-A  TIONS.  ^29 

gentleman  is  not  misplaced.  I  admit  that,  from  her  father' s 
words  and  manner,  last  evening,  after  he  learned  that  you 
were  a  married  man,  I  feared  that  I  might  have  a  quarrel 
with  you.  The  Wellingly  blood  has  ever  been  over  hot 
upon  certain  kinds  of  provocation,  and  on  no  point  more 
sensitive  than  that  of  our  women's  honor." 

"  You  may  still  think  that  you  have  cause  to  quarrel 
with  me  ;  but,  be  that  as  it  may,  I  shall  not  gloss  the  truth. 
You  cannot  condemn  me  more  bitterly  than  I  do  myseli 
Nor  shall  I  shrink  from  any  punishment  or  course  which 
you  may  impose."  And  he  gave  a  faithful  history  of  his 
acquaintance  with  Vera  from  the  first.  While,  in  justice  to 
himself,  he  showed  how  his  wrong  conduct  was  the  natural 
fruit  of  his  erratic  views,  he  did  not  in  the  least  extenuate 
it ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  spoke  of  it  with  a  censure  so  strong 
as  to  be  almost  fierce.  It  was  evidently  the  one  thing  for 
which  he  could  never  forgive  himself.  Indeed,  in  his  bound- 
less admiration  for  Vera,  he  forgot  himself,  and  became  her 
advocate  rather  than  his  own.  He  argued  that  she  had  been 
tempted  as  no  woman  ever  was  before — tempted  by  one  to 
whom  she  was  profoundly  grateful,  not  only  for  much  kind- 
ness, but  for  the  fact  that  he  had  stood  by  her  after  her 
father's  statement  that  he  was  a  criminal.  She  had  been 
tempted  by  one  upon  whom  she  was  almost  utterly  depen- 
dent for  existence  and  the  necessities  of  life.  And,  what  made 
resistance  tenfold  more  difficult,  he  had  not  sought  to  be- 
guile her  as  a  villain  might  have  done,  but  he  had  been  open 
and  honest  in  his  error,  full  of  plausible  arguments  ;  and 
he  had,  for  long  months,  and  with  all  the  skill  he  possessed, 
sought  to  undermine  what  he  regarded  as  her  baseless  faith. 

■'Moreover,"  Saville  concluded,  "  there  was  much  in  my 
own  unhappy  relations  and  in  the  conduct  of  my  wife  which 
txcited  her  womanly  sympathies  in  my  behalf  ;  but,  in  the 
face  of  all,  she  was  loyal  to  truth  and  duty.     I  have  now 


430  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

been  through  a  long  war  ;  but  I  have  seen  no  heroism,  no 
fidelity,  and  all-enduring  fortitude  equal  to  that  which  she 
has  displayed  through  long,  weary  years,  and  I  love  and 
honor  her  next  to  God  in  whom  she  led  me  to  trust  I  am 
through,  sir,  and  I  have  told  you  the  truth." 

As  Saville  had  warmed  with  his  narrative,  and  spoke  with 
graphic  earnestness  and  power,  Colonel  Wellingly  walked 
the  floor  in  deep  excii-ement,  with  strong  and  varying  emo- 
tions contending  on  his  face.  When  Saville  concluded,  he 
said, 

' '  This  is  a  most  extraordinar)'  statement,  and  yet  I  can- 
not doubt  its  truth.  I  have  been  inclined  by  turns  to  em- 
brace you  in  the  profoundest  gratitude,  and  to  shoot  you  on 
the  spot.  Poor  child,  poor  child  I  What  a  strange,  sad  lot 
she  and  her  mother  have  had  !  Heaven  grant  that  I  may 
shield  Vera  from  any  more  of  such  dark  and  terrible  ex- 
periences." 

"  I  shall  ever  echo  that  prayer,  sir,"  Saville  added  ear- 
nestly. 

"  Colonel  Saville,"  continued  Colonel  Wellingly,  after  a 
few  moments  of  deep  thought,  ' '  I  cannot  doubt,  after  hear- 
ing all  that  you  have  said,  that  Vera  is  correct  in  believing 
you  are  now  a  Christian  gentleman  ;  but  you  were  once  a 
very  dangerous  man,  sincere  as  you  evidently  were  in  your 
errors.  As  a  matter  of  curiosity,  I  have  read  some  of  the 
writings  of  your  old  masters,  and,  though  very  friendly  to 
the  French  people,  I  predict  for  them  terrible  evils,  as  the 
result  of  this  destructive  and  disorganizing  philosophy." 

"  I  can  believe  you,  sir.  Were  it  not  for  a  firm,  gentle 
hand,  that  stared  and  rescued  me,  it  would  have  brought 
evils  into  two  lives  that  would  have  been  irreparable. 

"  Your  own  strong  self-condemnation,"  said  Colonel 
Wellingly,  "  has  disarmed  me  of  censure.  Your  feelings 
and  motives  are  now  evidently  honorable,  and  it  would  be 


EXPLANA  TIONS.  431 

wretched  folly  to  drag  forward  the  evils  of  the  past  to  mar 

the  present.  But,  Colonel  Saville,  you  know  the  way  of 
the  world,  and  how  ready  it  is  to  suspect  of  evil.  Even  now 
I  fear  that  rumor  may  couple  your  name  with  that  of  my 
niece  in  a  sense  that  neither  of  us  can  wish." 

' '  I  recognize  and  respect  your  wish.  I  will  not  even  see 
Miss  VVellingly  again,  if  you  think  such  a  course  wise." 

"No,"  Colonel  WeUingly  replied,  after  a  little  thought. 
"  I  do  not  think  such  a  course  would  be  wise,"  for  he 
remembered  Vera's  decisive  words.  "  I  think  it  would  be 
better  for  you  to  see  her  occasionally.  But  a  gentleman 
of  your  tact  could  easily  give  the  impression  that  your  rela- 
tion to  my  niece  was  only  that  of  frank,  cordial  friendship. 
At  the  same  time,  it  might  be  well  to  apply  for  duty  else- 
where. ' ' 

"I  look  upon  you,"  Saville  answered,  "  as  Miss  Wel- 
lingly's  guardian,  and  shall  be  guided  strictly  by  your  judg- 
ment. Believe  me,  sir,  I  should  regard  it  as  the  greatest  mis- 
fortune  that  I  could  suffer,  if  any  act  of  mine  should  cast 
a  shadow  on  her  fair  name.  You  are  at  liberty  to  state  to 
her  father  all  that  I  have  told  you  ;  and  I  sincerely  hope  that 
his  mind  will  now  rapidly  recover  a  serene  and  healthful 
tone. 

"  I  will  satisfy  him,"  was  the  reply,  "  as  you  have  satis- 
fied me.  Please  do  us  the  favor  of  dining  with  us  at  six  this 
evening." 

When  Vera  awoke,  late  in  the  day,  her  thoughts  again 
reverted  to  the  explanation  which  she  supposed  she  must 
make,  and  she  dreaded  the  ordeal  unspeakably.  But  when 
she  emerged  from  her  room,  her  uncle  took  her  in  his  arms, 
and  said, 

"  Vera,  Mr.  Saville  has  told  me  all,  and  I  am  proud  of 
you,  as  the  best  and  noblest  little  girl  that  ever  breathed." 

"  That's  like  Mr.  Saville,"  said  Vera,  coloring  deeply. 


432  NF.AR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

"  He  has  been  making  me  out  an  angel,  and  himself  almost 
a  villain." 

"Well,"  said  Colonel  Wellingly,  laughing,  "the  more 
he  called  himself  a  villain,  the  more  sure  I  became  that  he 
was  an  honorable  man.  At  any  rate,  I  have  invited  the  vil- 
lain to  dine  with  us  this  evening. ' ' 

She  rewarded  him  so  promptly  and  heartily  that  the  wary 
colonel  was  filled  with  alarm. 

"  She  is  too  demonstrative, "  he  thought,  "and  will  show 
all  the  world  that  Saville  has  her  heart ;"  so  he  began,  very 
gravely,  "  Vera,  my  dear,  when  in  Mr.  Sa\alle's  presence,  I 
hope  you  will " 

She  put  her  hand  over  his  lips,  and  said  smilingly, 
"  Don't  fear,  uncle  ;  a  sensitive  woman's  nature  is  a  better 
guide  in  these  matters  than  the  soundest  advice." 

During  the  hour  of  dinner  Colonel  Wellingly  was  abun- 
dantly satisfied  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear,  for  the  most  evil- 
disposed  of  gossips  would  not  have  seen  anything  in  Saville's 
or  Vera's  manner  toward  each  other  to  which  exception 
could  have  been  taken.  But,  as  he  gave  her  his  hand,  in 
taking  leave,  she  touched  her  mother's  ring  upon  his  finger 
so  significantly  that  he  went  away  with  his  heart  warmed  and 
comforted  by  the  thought,  "  She  will  be  unchangeable  amid 
all  changes." 

Immediately  after  Captain  Molly  left  the  arbor,  the 
evening  before,  Saville  joined  her,  and  said,  in  a  low 
tone, 

"  Molly,  my  brave  girl,  will  you  do  for  me  one  more  good 
deed  to-night.?" 

"  Faix,  an'  I  will  ;  a  dozen  on  'em,  if  I've  toime." 

' '  Promise  me,  by  all  that  took  place  in  Fort  Clinton,  that 
you  will  never  mention  my  acquaintance  with  Miss  Vera  to 
any  one.  It's  not  the  world's  business,  and  the  world  sus- 
pects evil  where  there  is  no  evil." 


EXPLANA  TIONS.  433 

**  Misther  Saville, "  was  her  reply,  "  may  that  big  Hes- 
sian that  ye  killed  cotch  me  agin  if  I  iver  say  a  word. ' ' 

Tascar  had  often  been  warned,  but  the  boy  was  perfectly 
safe,  for  he  had  a  habit  of  dense  ignorance  on  any  subject 
concerning  which  he  did  not  choose  to  speak. 

Only  enough  of  Vera's  romantic  story  got  abroad  to  lend 
an  increased  charm  and  interest  to  her  beautiful  person.  If 
at  first  there  had  been  some  disposition  to  ask  what  had 
been  her  relations  with  Saville,  their  frank,  unaffected  man- 
ners in  society  banished  the  thought  of  evil  from  all  save 
those  who,  being  wholly  bad  themselves,  have  no  faith  in 
anything  good. 

In  spite  of  herself,  Vera  speedily  became  a  belle,  and,  in- 
stead of  being  a  hunted,  frightened  animal  of  the  mountains, 
as  she  once  described  herself  to  Saville,  she  was  now  estab- 
lished in  the  highest  social  position,  and  soon  became  a  spe- 
cial favorite  with  General  and  Lady  Washington.  In  addi- 
tion to  her  beauty,  she  possessed  unusual  solid  attractions, 
as  heiress  of  her  uncle's  large  wealth,  and  suitors  began  to 
gather  from  far  and  near,  as,  in  her  favorite  comedy,  they  had 
beset  the  door  of  Portia,  in  Belmont ;  and,  like  Portia,  she 
often  sighed,  ' '  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  a-weary 
of  this  great  world. ' '  But  the  casket  which  contained  Vera's 
imago  was  Saville's  heart,  and  that  was  closed  to  all  the 
work..  She  instructed  her  father  and  uncle  to  give  a  cour- 
teous but  firm  refusal  to  all  who  asked  of  them  permission 
to  pay  their  addresses,  and  those  who  sought  to  lay  siege 
without  such  formality  were  speedily  taught  that  any  atten- 
tions that  were  not  merely  friendly  were  most  unwelcome. 

Colonel  Wellingly  had  been  much  pleased  with  the  situa- 
tion cf  the  mountain  cabin,  and  at  once  commenced  enlarg- 
ing it  as  a  hunting  -lodge.  He  saw  that  his  brother,  from 
long  habit,  would  be  much  happier  there  than  anywhere 
else,  and  it  was  a  place  in  which  he  felt  that  he  could  while 


434  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

away  many  months  of  the  year  when  his  duties  would  per- 
mit. The  incubus,  in  a  very  great  measure,  lifted  from  Guy 
Welling!}' 's  mind,  and  he  was  no  longer  subject  to  his  old 
fits  of  gloom,  which  bordered  on  horror  and  despair  ;  but  it 
Vv-as  evident  that  he  would  always  be  a  grave,  silent  man, 
finding  the  shadows  of  the  forest  more  congenial  than  ths 
haunts  of  men. 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE.  435 


CHAPTER   XL 

HUSBAJCB   AND   WIFE. 

SAVILLE,  at  Colonel  Wellingly's  request,  did  not  apply 
to  be  sent  from  West  Point ;  but,  before  many  weeks 
alapsed,  he  was  summoned  away  for  the  most  unexpected 
and  painful  reasons.  Papers  came  through  the  lines,  from 
Mew  York,  containing  the  follov/ing  statement : 

"  A  Double  Crime  in  High  Life. — Mrs.  Julia  Saville, 
the  wife  of  Colonel  Saville,  of  the  American  Army,  has 
eloped  with  Captain  Vennam,  the  officer  whom  she  married 
with  such  indecent  haste,  on  receiving  from  him  the  report 
of  her  husband's  death.  Captain  Vennam  had  obtained 
leave  of  absence,  on  the  pretext  cf  visiting  some  friends  in 
Nova  Scotia,  whither  the  guilty  pair  have  sailed.  This  was 
bad  enough.  But,  on  the  night  before  their  departure,  an 
event  occurred  which  seems  to  give  proof  of  a  malice  and 
vindictive  hate,  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  believe  a  woman 
capable,  save  on  the  theory  that  when  she  does  fall,  she  sur- 
passes man  in  wickedness.  In  the  middle  of  the  night, 
flames  broke  out  in  Colonel  Saville's  mansion,  which  has 
been  occupied  by  his  mother  during  the  war.  Mrs.  Saville 
barely  escaped  with  her  life,  and  found  refuge  in  a  small 
cottage  on  the  estate,  and  she  is  now  quite  ill  from  fright 
and  exposure.  But  the  worst  part  of  the  story  is,  that  a 
short  time  before  the  fire  manifested  itself,  she  was  sure  that 
she  heard  the  voice  of  her  son's  recreant  wife  beneath  hei 


436  NEAR    TO    NATURE'S  HEART. 

windows,  and  also  the  unrecognized  voice  of  some  man. 
She  also  asserts  that  the  house  did  not  take  fire  from  within, 
but  from  the  front  piazza,  and  that  it  swept  up  the  main 
stairway.  She  and  the  servants  escaped  by  a  rear  staircase 
and  entrance.  The  night  was  dark  and  windy,  and  favor- 
able for  the  fiendish  deed.  Everything  was  lost.  The  au- 
thorities should  thoroughly  investigate, ' '  etc. 

Colonel  Wellingly,  as  he  read  it,  unconsciously  exclaimed, 
"  Shameful  !     Poor  Saville  !" 

In  a  moment  Vera  was  at  his  side,  and,  before  he  could 
prevent  it,  also  read  the  paragraph. 

' '  Uncle,  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Saville. ' ' 

"  But,  Vera,  my  dear,  it  may  not  be  prudent  to " 

"  O  uncle  !  if  Mr.  Saville  has  friends,  should  they  noi 
show  themselves  such  now  ?" 

"  I  will  go  to  him  with  all  my  heart.  There  are  many 
things  which  a  man  can  do  which  are  not  proper  for  a  young 
lady.  The  very  thought  of  that  vile  creature,  his  wife,  is 
soiling  to  you. ' ' 

"  I  do  not  think  of  her,  but  of  him  in  his  cruel  chains," 
she  replied,  weeping  bitterly.  "  Never  was  there  a  more 
hideous  bondage  than  his. ' ' 

But  her  uncle  was  relieved  of  all  perplexity,  for  his  ser- 
vant brought  him  a  note  from  Saville  to  Vera,  containing  a 
copy  of  the  paper,  but  in  his  care. 

"  I  am  so  overwhelmed  with  shame  and  sorrow,"  Saville 
had  written,  "  that  I  cannot  trust  myself  to  see  you.  Were 
it  not  for  the  faith  which  you  taught  me,  I  could  not  have 
survived  this  last  blow  and  disgrace.  By  the  time  this 
reaches  you,  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  New  York,  and  shall 
make  every  effort  to  induce  the  British  authorities  to  permit 
me  to  visit  my  mother,  and  provide  for  her  comfort.  I  have 
"lot  seen  her  now  for  years,  and,  if  necessary,  I  will  throw 


ffUSBAXD  AND    WIFE.  437 

Op  my  commission  and  become  a  citizen  in  order  to  reach 
her  side  at  once." 

The  English  commander,  after  a  little  delay  for  explana- 
tions, courteously  acceded  to  Saville's  request,  on  condition 
that  he  would  not  do  anything  during  his  residence  preju- 
dicial to  his  majesty's  service.  Peace  was  now  almost  as- 
sured, and  there  was  a  disposition  to  relax  the  rigid  military 
rule  of  the  city. 

The  son  found  that  he  had  not  reached  his  mother  a  day 
too  soon,  for  she  was  sinking  under  the  effects  of  her  fright, 
loss,  and  loneliness.  His  presence  revived  her,  however ; 
but  she  rallied  slowly,  and  was  a  feeble  invalid  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  summer  and  autumn.  He  hoped  to  move 
her  to  West  Point ;  but  she  was  not  equal  to  the  journey, 
and  most  reluctant  to  leave  the  spot  where  she  had  spent  so 
many  years.  He  made  the  gardener's  cottage,  which  she 
occupied,  as  comfortable  as  he  could  with  his  limited  mean:^ .: 
for  his  property,  lying  chiefly  in  the  city,  had  melted  away 
during  the  war,  and  the  money  he  had  deposited  in  Paris 
was  now  inaccessible.  Pie  denied  himself  ever}-thing 
that  he  might  make  his  mother  comfortable,  and  devoted 
himself  to  her,  trying  to  make  amends  for  his  long  absence, 
and  she  slowly  regained  health  and  strength  under  his 
care. 

And  yet  those  long  months  of  watching  and  poverty  taxed 
Saville's  faith  and  fortitude  to  the  utmost.  The  open  shame 
of  his  wife  did  not  make  her  less  his  wife  in  the  legal  sense. 
Her  offense  gave  no  cause  for  divorce  before  the  laws  as 
then  existing.  In  his  intense  desire  to  escape  his  chains, 
he  had  the  legal  archives  searched  for  some  precedent  ;  but 
found  that  for  over  a  hundred  years  no  divorce  had  been 
granted,  in  the  province  of  New  York,  on  the  ground  of  his 
wife's  crime. 
'  The  future  grew  darker  and   more  uncertain  than  ever- 


438  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

His  wife  had  disappeared  utterly  from  his  knowledge.  TTiere 
was  a  rumor  that  Captain  Vennam  had  gone  to  England. 
But  Saville  knew  that  it  was  ever  the  custom  of  satiated  lust 
to  cast  away  its  victims,  and  Vennam,  of  all  men,  was  the 
one  to  coolly  abandon  a  woman  of  whom  he  had  wearied. 
Therefore  Saville 's  wife  would  probably  become  a  wanderer 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  might  perish  in  some  miserable 
place  and  way,  and  still  he  remain  in  ignorance  of  the 
event.  If  she  filled  a  nameless  grave  in  a  foreign  land,  so 
long  as  the  fact  could  not  be  proved,  Saville  would  still  re- 
main bound,  and  the  chances  were  now  that  he  would  wear 
out  his  life  in  this  slow  torture  of  uncertainty.  He  could 
never  approach  the  proud  Colonel  Wellingly  and  ask  for  his 
niece  while  such  a  doubt  hung  over  him,  even  if  his  own 
jealous  regard  for  Vera's  honor  would  permit. 

As  the  dreary  winds  of  November  began  to  blow,  he  be- 
eame  deeply  depressed.  Captain  Vennam's  regiment  had 
been  ordered  to  England,  and  there  was  not  the  slightest 
^.hance  for  his  return.  Saville  did  not  know  to  what  part  of 
Nova  Scotia  he  had  taken  his  wife.  He  had  lost  all  clues. 
In  frequent  and  painful  reveries  he  saw  himself  growing  old 
in  doubt  and  uncertainty,  ever  chained  to  a  possible,  suppos- 
ititious woman,  who  might  be  living  a  vile  life  of  crime  in 
some  of  earth's  slums.  He  saw  Vera's  bright  youth  and 
beauty  fading  into  dim  and  premature  age  under  the  blight 
of  hope  deferred.  Then,  after  life  had  nearly  passed,  and 
the  chance  for  happiness  was  gone,  he  pictured  to  himself 
the  return  of  his  wife  as  a  hideous,  shrunken  hag,  as  loath- 
some in  appearance  as  in  character.  And  he  shuddered  at 
the  thought  that  he  could  neither  refute  nor  escape  her  claim 
— "  My  husband  !" 

A  letter  from  Surgeon  Jasper,  that  came  in  with  a  flag  of 
truce,  greatly  increased  his  despondency,  for  it  contained  the 
incidental  statement  that  ' '  the  young  ofl&cers  were  half  wild 


HUSBAND  A  AD   WIFE.  439 

over  Miss  Wellingly,  and  that  she  might  take  her  pick  from 
the  army. " 

One  dreary  day,  when  even  the  wild  storm  without  was  a 
cheerful  contrast  to  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  he  came  to  the 
deliberate  conclusion  that  Vera's  future  should  not  be  de- 
stroyed with  his  own,  and,  knowing  that  a  flag  of  truce 
would  go  out  the  following  morning,  he  sat  down  and 
wrote,  telling  her  just  how  he  was  situated. 

He  told  her  that  he  was  a  cripple,  that  the  war  had  con- 
sumed his  property,  and  that  the  sum  deposited  in  Paris, 
even  if  he  should  be  able  to  get  it,  would  not  be  more  than 
sufficient  to  support  his  mother.  These  facts  in  themselves 
formed  a  good  reason  why  she  should  be  released  from  the 
promise  of  which  her  mother's  ring  was  the  token.  He 
then  stated  plainly  the  uncertainty  he  would  always  probably 
be  under  in  regard  to  the  fate  of  his  wife,  and  he  earnestly 
urged  Vera  not  to  lose  her  chance  of  happiness.  * '  I  will 
wear  your  mother's  ring  henceforth  as  your  friend  and 
brother,  hoping  and  asking  for  nothing  more.  " 

He  inclosed  this  letter  to  the  care  of  her  uncle,  and  inti- 
mated that  she  had  better  show  him  the  contents. 

He  went  out  in  the  storm,  and  made  it  certain  that  the 
ktter  would  go  the  next  morning,  and  then  returned  to  his 
humble  home,  chilled,  cold,  and  wet.  But  he  had  achieved 
a  great  self-sacrifice,  and  he  felt  better.  He  now  believed 
that  Vera  would  form  new  ties  and  interests,  and  eventually 
become  happy  in  them.  For  himself  he  must  look  beyond 
the  shadows  of  time. 

He  did  his  best  to  make  his  mother  pass  a  cheerful  even- 
ing, and  succeeded.  She  did  not  dream  that  he  had  given 
up  the  dearest  hope  of  his  life,  and  that  his  genial  manner  was 
like  sunlight  playing  upon  a  grave.  She  had  been  ill  and 
weak,  and  he  had  not  burdened  her  with  his  sorrow. 

They  were  just  about  retiring,  when  a  light,  uncertain  step 


4AO  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART, 

was  heard  upon  the  Httle  porch.  There  was  a  low,  hollow 
cough,  and  then  came  a  hesitating  knock. 

Saville  took  a  candle  and  went  to  the  door,  and  the  form 
of  a  woman  stood  in  the  driving  sleet.  The  candle  flared 
in  the  wind,  and  nearly  went  out. 

"Who  are  you,  madam,  and  what  do  you  wish?"  he 
jisked. 

' '  I  am  your  wife,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  low,  desperate  tone. 

He  knew  from  her  voice  that  she  was  ;  but,  in  his  sur- 
prise and  strong  feeling,  he  could  not  immediately  speak, 
and  she  continued, 

"  I  suppose  you  will  thrust  me  out  to  die  also,  as  I  have 
been  turned  from  the  door  of  my  own  home,  and  by  my 
own  father,  this  bitter  night.  I  deserve  nothing  better  at 
your  hands.  I  said  I  would  never  cross  your  threshold  again, 
but  I  must  or  perish,  and  I  dare  not  die.      If  you  will  only 

give  me  shelter  in  some  out , ' '  but  here  a  paroxysm  of 

coughing  interrupted  her. 

' '  I  cannot  turn  you  away  in  such  a  night, ' '  said  Saville, 
in  an  agitated  tone.  ' '  Indeed,  I  pity  you  from  the  depths 
of  my  heart  I  will  give  you  food  and  shelter  here  for  to- 
night, and  in  the  morning  will  try  to  find  a  refuge  for  you." 

"No,  Theron,"  said  his  mother,  who  had  drawn  near 
to  the  door  and  overheard  all  ;  "  if  that  woman  comes  in, 
I  will  go  out." 

"  O  mother  !  you  women  have  no  m.ercy  on  each  other." 

"  I  will  not  pass  the  night  under  the  same  roof  with  that 
creature,"  said  his  mother  sternly. 

"  As  I  am  a  Christian  man,  she  shall  have  shelter  some= 
where,"  he  said;  and  throwing  a  large  cloak  over  her 
shoulders,  he  took  her  to  the  cottage  of  a  poor  man  living 
near,  who  was  under  great  obligations  to  Saville,  and,  with 
much  difficulty,  secured  a  room  for  her  there.  He  then 
took  her  food  and  wine  with  his  own  hands. 


HUSBAND  AND   WIFE.  44! 

"  Why  do  you  do  this  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Julia,"  he  said  kindly,  "  if  I  had  been  a  Christian  in- 
stead of  an  unbeliever  when  we  were  married,  you  might 
never  have  come  to  this  wretched  state. ' ' 

"  Will  you  forgive  the  past,  and  take  me  back  as  your 
wife  again  T '  she  asked,  her  old  trait  of  self-seeking  promptly 
showing  itself. 

"  I  will  and  do  forgive  you,"  he  said  gravely,  "  and  I 
will  do  all  for  your  comfort  that  I  can  in  my  poverty  ;  but 
you  can  never  be  my  wife  again  save  only  in  name. ' ' 

"  Well,"  she  muttered,  "  that's  more  than  I  could  ex- 
pect ;  and  it's  a  great  deal  better  than  dying  in  the  street  like 
a  dog. ' ' 

The  next  day  she  was  very  ill  and  feverish,  and  Saville  sum- 
moned a  physician.  After  a  brief  examination,  he  told  Sa- 
ville that  she  could  live  but  a  short  time  under  any  circum- 
stances, since  she  was  in  the  last  stages  of  hasty  consumption. 

Her  wretched  history  after  leaving  New  York  was  soon 
told.  Vennam  left  her  penniless  in  a  northern  city,  and, 
after  a  brief  life  of  crime,  she  became  ill  from  exposure  in 
the  rigorous  climate.  A  British  officer  who  had  known  her 
in  New  York  secured  her  a  steerage  passage  thither.  She 
arrived  in  the  storm,  but  did  not  dare  to  go  to  her  father's 
house  till  after  dark.  He  had  sent  her  from  his  door  with 
curses,  and  then  she  came  to  the  one  whom  she  had  wronged 
most. 

She  was  in  great  terror  when  the  physician  told  her  that 
she  could  not  live,  and  the  scenes  at  her  bedside  were  har- 
rowing in  the  extreme.  Saville  patiently  and  gently  tried  to 
lead  her  to  the  Merciful  One  who  received  and  forgave  out- 
casts like  herself ;  but  her  mind  was  too  clouded  by  terror 
and  too  enfeebled  by  disease  to  understand  anything  clearly 
save  the  one  dreadful  truth  that  she  must  die.  Her  deliri- 
ous words  were  even  worse  than  her  partially  sane  cries  and 


442  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

moans  ;  but  Saville,  with  patient  endurance,  remained  at 
her  bedside  almost  continually,  and  ministered  to  her  with 
his  own  hand  to  the  last.  All  that  medical  skill  and  faith- 
ful care  could  accomplish  was  done  to  alleviate  her  suffering 
and  add  to  the  number  of  her  days.  With  earnest  words 
and  prayer  he  sought  to  instill  into  her  guilty  and  despairing 
heart  something  like  faith.  But  that  had  happened  to  her 
■which  may  happen  to  any  who  persist  in  the  ways  of  evil  : 
she  had  passed  so  far  down  into  the  dark  shadow  of  moral 
and  physical  death  that  no  light  could  reach  her.  Her  end 
was  so  inexpressibly  sad,  that,  although  by  it  Saville  was  re- 
lieved from  his  cruel  bondage,  he  yet  sat  down  by  her  life* 
less  bod^  aud  wept  as  oni^  a  strong  man  can  wsep. 


WEDDED  iVJTH  HEK  MOTHER'S  RING,       443 


CHAPTFB    XLI. 

WEDDED    WITH    HER    JIOTHER's    RING. 

VERA  was  alone  with  her  uncle  when  she  received  Sa- 
ville's  letter.  She  read  it  with  a  blending^  of  smiles 
and  tears,  and  then  passed  it  to  Colonel  Wellingly,  saying, 

' '  Mr.  Saville  wished  you  to  see  this,  and  I  am  ver}'  glad 
to  have  you  do  so,  for  it  will  satisfy  you  more  fully  than  ever 
what  kind  of  a  man  he  is. " 

Her  uncle  read  the  contents  with  great  interest,  and  then 
said,  "This  letter  does  Mr.  Saville  much  ciedit,  and,  I 
must  say,  I  think  he  takes  a  correct  and  sensible  view  of 
things.  Your  promise  was  a  rash  one,  at  best,  and  it  was 
extorted  from  you  in  a  moment  of  dire  emergency.  More- 
over, what  he  says  is  true,  and  it  is  probable  he  will  never 
hear  a  word  from  his  wife  again.  And  yet  Vera  Wellingly 
cannot  marry  a  man  whose  wife  may  appear  any  day." 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  marry  him,  uncle." 

"  Now  that  is  sensible,  too.  You  must  be  quite  well 
convinced  by  this  time  that  you  can  take  your  pick,  and 
make  a  very  brilliant  match.*' 

"Where  is  your  wife,  uncle?"  said  Vera,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "  You  are  the  kind  of  man  who  can  always  take 
his  pick." 

He  was  silent,  for  she  had  touched  a  very  tender  chord  in 
him,  as  he  had  in  her  heart. 

'  *  It  may  be  that  some  can  manage  these  things  in  a  sensi- 


4.44  NEAR     :0   NATURE'S  HEART, 

ble,  thrifty  way,"  sh; continued  ;  **  but  it  does  not  seem  to 
run  in  our  blood  to  do  so.  Forgive  me,  uncle,  for  touch- 
ing a  sensitive  chord  :  b;it  I  wish  you  to  learn  to  interpret 
my  heart  by  your  own  ;  then  this  question  will  be  finally 
settled,  and  you  caa  shiek^  me  from  many  unwelcome  at- 
tentions." 

"  Well,"  said  her  uncle,  trying  to  give  a  lighter  turn 
to  the  conversation,  "somebody's  loss  is  mine  and  your 
father's  great  gain." 

"  Yes,"  said  Vera  ;  "  I  intend  to  make  myself  so  neces- 
sary to  you  both,  that  you  will  be  like  two  dragons  toward 
every  one  with  suspicious  designs.  I  am  satisfied  that  it  is 
money  that  most  of  them  are  seeking,  at  best  ;  and  Theron 
loved  me  and  was  kind  when  I  was  hungry  and  in  rags. 
Foolish  fellow  !  I  suppose  he  was  in  a  state  of  high  trag- 
edy when  he  wrote  this  letter,  and  thought  that  I  would  take 
him  at  his  word.  He  will  never  make  such  a  blunder  again 
after  receiving  my  answer." 

But  one  day,  before  she  found  a  chance  of  sending  her 
reply  to  New  York,  her  uncle  entered  his  quarters  in  a  state 
of  great  excitement,  and  said,  producing  a  city  paper, 

"  Vera,  it  is  due  to  you  that  you  should  see  this  at  once." 
And  he  pointed  out  the  following  paragraph  : 

Rare  Magnanimity.— The  Saville  tragedy  has  at  length  ended, 
and  ended  strangely.  As  might  have  been  expected,  Captain  Ven- 
nam  soon  abandoned  the  wretched  woman  who  eloped  with  him, 
and  she  returned  to  this  city  in  a  sick  and  dying  condition.  In  the 
pitiless  storm  of  the  night  of  the  25th  ult.,  she  was  repulsed  from 
her  parents'  door  and,  in  her  despair,  sought  help  from  her  most 
deeply  wronged  husband.  Strange  to  say,  he  has  treated  her  with 
wonderful  kindness.  He  could  not  give  her  a  refuge  under  the 
same  roof  with  his  mother  ;  but  he  procured  for  her  a  comfortable 
room,  and  was  untiring  in  his  attentions,  doing  everything  in  his 
power  to  alleviate  her  sufferings  during  the  few  days  she  survived. 


WEDDED    WITH  HER  MOTHER'S  R/.YG.       445 

We  have  these  facts  from  the  citizen  at  whose  house  she  died,  and 
can  vouch  for  their  correctness." 

Vera  dropped  the  paper  and  fled  to  her  room,  and  several 
hours  elapsed  before  she  reappeared.  When  she  did,  her 
eyes  gave  evidence  tiiat  many  tears  had  mingled  with  her 
joy.  In  curious  and  feminine  contradiction  to  her  plainly 
expressed  purpose,  she  did  not  write  to  Saville  by  the  next 
flag  of  truce.  "  He  is  now  at  liberty  to  write  to  me  another 
and  a  very  different  letter,"  she  said  to  herself;  "and  I 
shall  wait  till  he  does." 

But  when  Saville's  letter  came,  as  it  did  in  time,  it  breathed 
only  a  quiet  and  friendly  spirit,  such  as  he  would  naturally 
write  on  the  supposition  that  she  had  accepted  his  last  letter  as 
the  basis  of  their  future  relations.  It  was  not  in  Vera's 
nature  to  write  and  inform  him  that  he  was  all  at  fault,  and 
that  she  was  like  a  rose  waiting  to  be  plucked.  "  He  will 
have  to  find  out  all  for  himself, '' '  she  thought ;  ' '  but  I  fear 
he  will  be  ridiculously  blind,  and  continue  his  high  tragedy 
until  some  unforeseen  circumstance  opens  his  eyes. 

Early  in  the  spring  Mrs.  Saville  so  far  regained  her  health 
that  her  son  was  able  to  return  to  the  army,  a  step  rendered 
specially  necessary  by  his  pecuniary  circumstances.  He 
called  promptly  on  Vera  after  his  return  to  West  Point ;  but 
it  so  happened  that  there  were  several  strangers  calling  at  her 
uncle's  quarters  at  the  time,  and  his  manner  was  somewhat 
formal  and  distant.  She  was  provoked  at  herself  that  she 
permitted  her  bearing  to  be  tinged  by  his. 

After  the  guests  were  all  gone,  her  uncle  found  her  in 
tears,  and  said, 

' '  Foolish  child  I  as  if  you  had  cause  to  worry.  You  are 
both  like  gunpowder,  and  only  need  a  spark  to  set  you  off  ' ' 

"  You  are  very  much  mistaken,  uncle.  Theron  is  wors« 
than  a  spiked  cannon." 


446  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

The  next  evening,  she  and  her  father  were  taking  a  walk 
by  the  river,  near  the  extreme  point  of  land  where  Saville 
had  first  discovered  her  nearly  eight  years  before,  on  the 
June  afternoon,  now  memorable  to  both.  Footsteps  caused 
her  to  glance  up  the  bank,  and  then  she  pulled  her  father 
into  the  concealment  afforded  by  a  clump  of  cedars.  In  a 
few  moments,  Saville  came  out  on  the  point  and  threw  him- 
self down  upon  the  grassy  plot  where  he  had  seen  Vera  re- 
clining before  he  caused  her  hasty  flight.  She  put  her  finger 
to  her  lips,  and  made  a  sign  to  her  father  not  to  move,  and 
then  she  stole  up  toward  him  as  he  had  before  approached 
her,  and  reached  the  same  low  cedar  over  which  he  had 
peered  wonderingly  and  admiringly  at  her  childish  face  and 
form. 

"  O  stupid  Theron  !  can't  you  feel  that  I  am  here  ?"  she 
thought.  "  I  felt  your  presence  even  then  before  I  saw  you. 
I  am  so  near  that  I  can  almost  touch  you,  and  yet  there  you 
lie  at  lazy  length." 

He  commenced  singing,  in  a  low  tone, 

"  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows." 

She  waited  no  longer,  but,  in  her  sweet  voice,  repeated 
the  old  refrain,  which  had  been  the  signal  for  so  many  of 
their  trysts.  He  sprang  up,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  her 
laughing  and  blushing  face  back  of  the  cedar,  came  instantly 
to  her  side. 

"  See  what  a  whirligig  time  is,"  she  said.  "  I  surprised 
you  on  this  occasion." 

"  But  I  shall  not  run  away  as  you  did,  Vera." 

"  Indeed  I  Now  it  is  my  turn  to  be  surprised  again.  I 
had  fears  lest,  in  your  desire  to  escape,  you  might  plunge 
into  the  water." 

He  looked  at  her  very  earnestly,  and  her  eyes  drooped 
under  his  gaze,  as  they  had,  years  before,  in  the  early  dawn, 
after  she  had  rescued  him  from  Fort  Clinton. 


WEDDED    WITH  HER  MOTHER'S  R/NG.       447 

"  Vera,"   he  said  hesitatingly,  "  I  am  very  poor." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  the  subject  ?"  she  asked,  with 
a  sudden  mirthfulness  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  but  a  cripple,"  he  continued  sadly,  "  and  there 
is  a  dark  stain  upon  my  name." 

Her  laughing  eyes  became  full  of  tears. 

"  Circumstances  have  greatly  changed.  You  are  now 
Vera  Wellingly,  and  the  heiress  of  large  wealth  " 

"  I  would  rather  be  the  ragged,  friendless  Vera  Brown 
you  found  at  my  mother's  grave,  than  have  you  talk  in  this 
way,  Theron." 

"  Would  to  heaven  you  were  !"  he  said  with  passionate 
earnestness  ;  "for  then  I  would  kneel  at  your  feet  and  beg 
you  to  be  my  wife." 

She  dashed  her  tears  right  and  left,  and  taking  his  hand, 
asked, 

"  Theron,  what  right  ha^e  you  to  this  ring?  You  have 
become  a  skeptic  again,  and  I  shall  have  to  teach  you  a  new 
and  stronger  faith. ' ' 

"  And  may  I  give  this  old,  bent  ring  which  you  are  wear- 
ing its  first  meaning  V '   he  said  eagerly. 

' '  It  never  had  any  other  meaning  to  me, " '  she  said,  with 
a  low  laugh,  and  then  she  added,  with  an  exquisite  touch  of 
pathos,  "  We  could  not  help  loving  each  other,  Theron, 
after  all  that  had  happened  ;  we  could  only  help  doing 
wrong.  Do  not  grieve  that  you  have  lost  an  arm,  for  you 
shall  have  both  of  mine  in  its  place.  That  which  you  call 
a  stain  upon  your  name  has  come  to  be,  in  my  eyes,  the 
most  flashing  jewel  in  the  crown  of  your  manhood.  When 
that  poor  creature  fled  to  your  door  from  her  father's  scorn 
and  curses,  you,  who  had  been  most  wronged,  acted  as  the 
Divine  Man  would  have  done.  If  you  could  be  so  kind  to 
her,  how  sure  I  am  of  patient  tenderness  !  I  will  conclude 
my  long  homily  with  this  plain  exhortation  :  Never  forget 
Roe— VTTT— T 


448  NEAR    TO  NATURE'S  HEART. 

that  Vera  Wellingly  and  Vera  Brown  are  one  and  the  same 
person.      It  will  save  you  a  world  of  trouble." 

Then  she  called  her  father,  but  he  had  stolen  away  and 
left  the  lovers  to  themselves. 

The  long  and  terrible  war  was  over.  The  last  British 
soldier  had  embarked  from  the  city  of  New  York,  and  Wash- 
ington, who  had  become  the  foremost  general  of  the  age, 
was  about  to  repair  to  the  seat  of  government,  that  he  might 
resign  his  commission  and  become  a  simple  American  citi- 
zen. But,  before  doing  so,  he  attended  a  wedding  in  a 
beautiful  uptown  villa  which  had  been  hastily  prepared  for 
the  occasion. 

It  was  a  magnificent  affair  for  those  primitive  and  war- 
depleted  times.  Sam  Fraunces  and  his  buxom  daughter 
Phoebe  presided  over  the  cuisine  and  entertainment,  and  the 
best  military  band  of  the  army  discoursed  gay  music.  Many 
of  the  leading  men  of  the  country.  State,  and  city,  were  pres- 
ent, and  among  them,  it  might  almost  be  said,  was  Captain 
Molly,  for  she  persisted  in  wearing  her  cocked  hat  and  ar- 
tilleryman's coat.  Surgeon  Jasper  found  himself  an  honor- 
able master  of  ceremonies,  and  Tascar  was  charged  with  so 
many  important  duties  that  he  at  last  was  satisfied  that  he 
utterly  eclipsed  his  old  friend,  Ponipey.  His  mother,  old 
Gula,  in  her  lofty  red  turban,  looked  as  if  she  might  have 
been  in  very  truth  an  African  dowager  queen. 

Mrs,  Saville  was  so  happy  that  she  quite  renewed  her 
youth,  and  would  have  been  perfectly  ready  to  admit  that 
heaven  had  made  a  better  match  than  she  had  thriftily  com- 
passed, as  she  had  once  supposed.  Vera's  gentle  and  affec- 
tionate manner  had  won  her  heart  at  once,  while  she,  at  the 
same  time,  complacently  remembered  the  ducats  of  the 
bride. 

The  tall,  bent  form  of  the  father  was  conspicuous,  even 
though,  in  accordance  with  his  old  shrinking  habit,  he  ever 


WEDDED   WITH  HER  MOTHER'S  RING.       449 

sought  the  background  in  the  brilliant  scene.  Peace  sat 
serenely  on  his  brow,  where  gloom  had  lowered  for  so  many 
years.  He  believed  that  the  curse  had  passed  away  from 
him  and  his,  and  he  was  daily  becoming  more  grateful  for 
recognized  blessings. 

But  Colonel  Wellingly  was  the  genius  of  the  occasion, 
and,  with  a  genial,  high-bred  courtesy,  he  moved  among  the 
guests,  bestowing  words  of  welcome  and  graceful  attentions, 
with  the  tact  of  one  whose  thorough  knowledge  of  men  en- 
abled him  to  make  every  utterance  and  act  timely  and  appro- 
priate. To  each  one  he  gave  the  sense  of  being  recognized 
and  cared  for  ;  and  his  fine  breeding  made  him  at  ease  in 
addressing  Governor  Clinton,  or  the  Commander-in-chief, 
and  no  less  so  in  speaking  to  some  subaltern,  or  Captain 
Molly  herself. 

Soon  a  breezy  and  expectant  rustle  and  hum  of  voices  an- 
nounced that  the  bride  and  groom  were  descending  the  grand 
stairway.  * 

As  Vera  entered,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  her  father, 
there  was  a  deep  murmur  of  admiration. 

Her  heart  was  filled  with  unspeakable  gratitude,  for  God's 
minister  was  before  her,  and  in  his  hand  God's  Holy  Word. 
And  when  Saville  spoke  the  words,  ' '  With  this  ring  I  thee 
wed,"  and  put  upon  her  finger  the  plain  gold  band  with 
which  her  father  had  espoused  her  mother,  she  thought  she 
felt  that  mother's  hands  resting  upon  her  head  in  blessing. 
Even  in  that  supreme  moment,  her  mind  flashed  back  to  the 
hour  of  her  strong  temptation,  when  her  mother's  charge  that 
she  should  be  wedded  with  this  ring  came  to  her  help  like 
an  angel's  hand.  While  the  clergyman  was  offering  the 
concluding  prayer,  her  mind  wandered  a  little,  and  harbored 
the  thought, 

"If  on  earth  God  can  thus  richly  reward  patient  obedi- 
ence, what  will  heaven  be?" 


450  NEAR    TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

As  Washington  was  about  to  take  his  leave,  with  strong 
expressions  of  his  regard  and  kindly  interest,  Saville  asked 
him  if  he  would  grant  them  a  brief  private  interview. 

With  some  surprise  he  consented,  and  was  conducted  into 
a  beautiful  little  room,  to  which  no  guests  had  been  admit- 
ted. On  a  stand  of  inlaid  wood  of  rare  value,  and  resting 
on  some  exquisitely  embroidered  velvet,  lay  a  little  book. 

"Does  your  Excellency  recognize  this?"  asked  Vera, 
pointing  to  it. 

As  Washington  took  it  up,  a  quick  ray  of  intelligence 
lighted  up  his  face,  and  he  said, 

"  It  is  my  old  Bible,  which  I  have  carried  through  many 
a  battle. ' ' 

"God  bless  your  Excellency!"  said  Vera,  taking  his 
hand  in  strong  emotion.  "  This  book,  which  is  your  gift, 
carried  me  through  the  one  sore  battle  of  my  life." 

' '  And  this  happy  wedding  to-night, ' '  added  Saville,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  feeling,  ' '  at  which  I  feel  the  Son  of  God  is 
present,  as  truly  as  He  was  at  Cana,  is  due  to  your  gift  of 
this  Bible,  and  the  Christian  counsel  which  accompanied  it. 
I  was  then  an  unbeliever,  and  was  tempting  this  dear  wife 
to  a  union  in  which  she  must  have  thrown  away  her  mother's 
wedding-ring.  But  this  Bible  saved  us  both,  and  we  bless 
you  for  it  with  a  gratitude  that  shall  never  cease." 

Tears  gathered  quickly  in  Washington's  eyes,  and  taking 
Vera  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her  tenderly,  saying, 

"  The  words  which  you  and  your  husband  have  spoken 
form  one  of  those  memories  which  grow  dearer  to  the  last 
hour  of  life. " 

One  quiet  summer  evening,  Arthur  and  Guy  Wellingly 
issued  from  the  door  of  the  rustic  hunting-lodge  into  which 
the  mountain  cabin  had  been  developed,  and,  following  a 
path,  they  came  to  a  lovely  and  secluded  spot,  embowered 
in  the  primeval  trees  of  the  forest.     From  a  pedestal  arose  a 


WEDDED   WITH  HER  MOTHER'S  RING.        451 

light  shaft  of  white  marble,  around  which  was  entwined  the 
clinging  ivy.  It  bore  no  name.  That  was  engraved  on  the 
hearts  of  the  brothers. 

Was  she  a  weak  woman  who  had  thus  enchained  two  such 
men  ?  Is  not  that  faith  rational  which  affirms  that  iov«  £o 
faithful  must  have  a  spiritual  and  eternal  fruition? 


THE  END. 


r 


